Politics of the Redoran
by Tim Cummings
Summary: Third in the Arvil Bren series.
1. Chapter 1

_**Politics of the Redoran**_

I've had little to write. Blissful nights with Ahnassi, busy but ordinary days in the guild halls; seldom any detail of note. But Vvardenfell, and my destiny, do not wait.

I have been successful at binding the objectives of Great House Redoran and the Mage's Guild. Under Trebonius the guild struggled. His emphasis led us in directions that aggrandized him with the high council in distant Cyrodiil. Many apprentices labored at impossible tasks, or had none. My own experience with solving the riddle of the Dwemer aside there was little accomplished. Supporting the defense of Maar Gan has set us in a different direction, a direction that means little in Cyrodiil, but brings us actively into the awareness of the Dunmer.

The Dunmer, when they think of mages, think of the Telvani. Xenophobic, ensconced in their towers, motivated only by their own mysterious impulses; the Telvani have not given Dunmer society the ready access to magecraft that the guild represents. It falls to us. A welcome void that we have begun to fill. The spreading blight provides endless opportunity.

Things are progressing particularly well in Ald-ruhn. Edwinna has her apprentices traveling throughout Redoran territory, honing their skills while serving the people; battling the blighted monsters of Red Mountain. The gratitude of Theldyn Virith, the hetman of Ald Velothi, has taken a most tangible form. The dreugh hunters of his coastal fishing village contributed two pounds of valuable wax from their prey as reward for dispatching a particularly nasty school of slaughterfish that was plaguing their docks. Alchemists throughout the halls are exploring the magical properties of this rare substance.

Through the efforts of the guild my own star has risen in the house, and I have been promoted to the rank of Lawman. To advance further will require the sponsorship of a council member, and tomorrow I will be in Ald-ruhn to address this. I have been keeping my distance, as Athyn Sarethi suggested, though I have kept in contact through Neminda. He has continued to investigate how he became a target of the Morag Tong. Perhaps he has reached some conclusion, or perhaps he has reached a point where he needs my assistance. In any event he has sent for me.

Leaving for Ald-ruhn will take me away from my own insoluble confusion. Hopefully with distance will come some sort of clarity. Picking at the knot on a near daily basis has given no solution.

Ranis, my mentor in the guild, has tried to help. Mages she apprenticed with in her youth, friends and close confidants, have long since gone to dust. In many cases her own apprentices have risen to their peaks, then eventually withered and died. In an organization where there are relatively few elvenkind her longevity has given her a close proximity to the issues of aging and death.

I also shared many mugs with my friend Nelos. For him the issue is as personal as it is for me. He never expected his Dunmer heart to be stolen by a mortal, but now he grapples with a future in which his beloved Maurrie will age and be lost to him. He has an advantage. This consequence was there for him when they met.

I am the Nerevarine; preserved from age and death. From natural death. If I succeed and Dagoth Ur is defeated I will be the savior of Vvardenfell. My reward will be an eternity of loss; loss of my own beloved Ahnassi. Or not. Deep in my mind I am beginning to hear whispers; a foul voice that I must ignore. Dagoth Ur is immortal, even by Dunmer standards, also the Tribunal. In my moment of triumph, if it should come to pass, I will have access to the heart of Lorkan. Will I be able to turn my back on its power? The power to save my love?

_**Day 2: Mystery of the Morag Tong**_

The Morag Tong are assassins. They are neither shy nor clandestine; they are assassins and proud of it. In Morrowind they are not criminals, they are a vital part of great house society. The great houses have always battled for supremacy in Dunmer affairs, in fact the division with the Dwemer and the fall of House Dagoth could be seen as just another chapter in this continuous struggle. The services of the Morag Tong allow this struggle to take place without breaking out into civil war.

Assassination is legal, but there are rules. The Morag Tong has very strict limitations. Any member of a great house who stands in the way of another house's ambitions may find their name on a writ of assassination. Obviously, being a member of the ruling council of House Redoran would suggest any number of possible enemies who would want Athyn Sarethi dead. Closer examination only deepens the mystery though. Sarethi's views are very moderate as Redorans go.

I pondered the issue as I walked into Balmora this morning, but only got more puzzled. I've had Ranis Athrys examining the question there. She is a Dunmer, and the Athrys family is not unfamiliar with the intrigues of the courts of Mournhold. With the conflict with House Hlaalu over the Caldera land grab right at the boiling point the capital of Hlaalu territory seemed a good place to seek the solution, but she could not help.

"Sarethi would not seem a likely target," she said. "He would confront the Hlaalu if there were hard evidence they had conspired with the Empire, but who wouldn't? The Hlaalu certainly have more likely targets on the Redoran council."

"More likely targets?" I asked.

"If Miner Arobar was Lord of the South Gash he would be screaming for war, for example," she said. "If Lady Morvayn weren't so busy with the defense of Maar Gan she would be more of a concern for the Hlaalu as well."

"Could one of the Redorans think Sarethi's more moderate position is somehow in their way? Do they really want a war?"

"I don't think anyone wants a war Archmage. Besides, the Tong will not be involved in maneuvering inside the council."

"They won't?" I didn't understand.

"The Morag Tong will only accept a writ on a rival house. Whoever contracted Sarethi's death, they aren't a Redoran." That seemed conclusive, but it still nagged at me as I climbed onto the guild guide platform and transported to Ald-ruhn.

When I arrived at the council chambers under Skar I was led into a small meeting chamber. Athyn Sarethi greeted me warmly. "Your guild has been most helpful. Our house is in your debt."

"I am proud to call it my own house, Lord Sarethi. No debt."

"I appreciate your loyalty Arvil Bren. We are always surprised with retainers who are not Dunmer." I appreciated the way he avoided the word 'outlander'. "To me it seems you just joined the house. Sometimes we forget that your lives pass so much faster that your perspective is much different."

I think I made good progress on having him sponsor me as a house cousin, but the conversation turned in a different direction. I tried to have the patience that a Dunmer would have naturally, with a lifespan measured in centuries rather than years. Arethi actually was displaying some impatience himself.

"My son is late," he said suddenly. I didn't quite follow, but as it turns out his son has been in Balmora and has some light to shed on who has taken Sarethi as an enemy. Too much information perhaps. He has disappeared. Instead of the expected son we were visited by a member of Sarethi's household staff, bearing a written message.

Sarethi exploded. He threw the message in front of me, which I took as permission to read it. More an order to read it I suppose. From the Morag Tong, a complaint that Sarethi had sent his son to investigate them, or so it seemed.

"He found something. Someone is nervous," Sarethi said. "I need you to find him."

"You think the Tong didn't just kill him?"

"That isn't from the Morag Tong," he said. "Even if they were offended, which they wouldn't be, they would not take action against him. The Tong has honor. They would not act without a writ. If they would, they would be taking action against whoever is behind this hoax," he gestured disdainfully at the message. "_That_ they would be offended by."

I had not thought that things could get any more confusing. I think that was the deepest point. Sarethi began to explain there.

"The writ against me was taken by a petty Hlaalu noble," he said. "The Hlaalu would consider it 'business', and they do not look deeply at right or wrong where business is concerned. The Morag Tong, however, takes their rules very seriously. My son proved to their satisfaction that that noble had been paid to issue the writ; paid by a Redoran."

"That's not a legal writ, is it?"

"No, it isn't. The writ on me is cancelled and the Hlaalu has been executed."

"By the Tong? I thought they couldn't act independently."

"It is in the contract," he explained. "If you contract with the Morag Tong, there is a requirement that you follow the law, under penalty of death."

"So who is the Redoran?" I asked.

"I don't know. My son might have known. I'm sure he knows now. Whoever it is has him. You must find him."

"Where do I look?"

"He is somewhere under Skar. My enemy is on the council."

_**Day 3: Bolvyn Venim, Archmaster of the Redorans**_

Athyn Sarethi did not tell me where to look for his son. There are shops under Skar, buried deep below the bottom of the great emperor crab's shell. There are shops, but not many. Mostly 'under Skar' refers to the council chambers and the great manors of the council members. Logically, it is not a shopkeeper who has set themselves against Lord Sarethi. Advice rose up in my mind. Advice I had been given about being named Hortator. Those who are in power are the most resistant to change.

Sarethi has seniority, and he is widely respected. Among the common Redorans, and sometimes even among the guards, I have heard him referred to as the 'last best hope of the Redorans'. He could, perhaps, lead the house. The people would support him, the guards would not oppose him, the council might agree...but Bolvyn Venim, currently the Archmaster of the house, would certainly not welcome the change. How much would he resist?

Edwinna, my guild steward here in Ald-ruhn, seemed a likely place to start an inquiry.

"Yes, I've met him," she said. From her face I guessed that meeting the Lord of Ald-ruhn was not a welcome part of her duties. She confirmed that. "He is a complete Dunmer bigot." Beyond that impression there was little she could say. How far he would go to maintain power within the house could not be seen from the outside.

I went to the council chambers and approached Neminda, carefully. Sarethi is her patron, but clearly in her position as manager of the house she would have to stay on the right side of the Archmaster. Not an easy task if he is strongly against outlanders, as Edwinna had suggested. He is. Neminda confirmed it, and I found out for myself.

"I've been looking into the assassination attempt," I told her.

"Good. He has survived the Morag Tong three times," she said. "It is not like them to miss. They will take no chances next time."

I did not pass on to her that it seemed there would not be a next time. "It is hard to imagine an enemy of the house choosing him as a target. He looks to be next in line, and easier to deal with than the Archmaster. Seems like the other houses would be targeting Bolvyn Venim rather than Athyn Sarethi."

"I know," she agreed.

I pressed, indirectly. I could not suggest that Venim was behind the plot, but I could lead her to examine the differences between her patron and the Archmaster. In those differences she could look for a reason for Sarethi to be targeted rather than Venim. I could look for reasons Venim would think Sarethi such a threat that he would want him eliminated.

Neminda herself represents the problem. Outlanders. Sarethi is the most forward thinking council member when it comes to outlanders. Incorporate them into the house; support us when we subject ourselves to Dunmer rule; he is trying to find ways to coexist with the Imperial presence. Venim would run us out, even Neminda. He might be open to the prophecy of the Nerevarine, at least the part about driving out the outlanders. He is in for a rude awakening.

Eventually, I could not find any reason not to suspect Venim. All that was left was to meet him myself. Neminda scheduled an appointment for me.

The entry hall of Venim manor is spectacular. Crimson garbed servants bustled about, and guards clad in heavy armor of Dwemer metal stood at motionless attention flanking an inner door. Rich tapestries adorn the walls and lush foliage rises to the high vault of the ceiling from a planter in the center. I was led to a bench and told brusquely to wait. My first thought was that the bench was selected for appearance rather than comfort. After meeting Venim I corrected that. The bench was probably selected specifically because it is so uncomfortable.

The Archmaster himself is as impressive as his surroundings. He entered through an inner door, and the immobile guards snapped to an even greater attention, if that was possible. I rose gratefully from the bench. I greeted him with the respect due the Archmaster of my house. He looked at me with disdain and brushed an invisible speck from his ebony breastplate. "You have impressed some in the house," he said, making it clear that he was not one of them, "and I understand you have some rank in some outlander guild."

I was actually speechless. I had not expected to be welcomed like an old friend, but I have gotten used to being the Archmage of Vvardenfell. He laughed in my face. "You are surprised?" he said. "You think I should be impressed by you, wizard? Your outlander guild means nothing to me. To me you are just another outlander taken into my house like a mongrel nix hound. Neminda says you are investigating the Morag Tong's attempt on Lord Sarethi's life. So investigate. Elsewhere." He spun on his ebony booted heel and stalked away, the high ridge of red hair bobbing over the otherwise clean shaven grey scalp.

I did the only thing I could do to accomplish the purpose of my visit. "Lord Sarethi's son found some useful information," I said to the retreating back. "I expect I'll have it all sorted out soon." There was the slightest break in his pace, and one of the guards let their eyes dart to a door on my right. Not really evidence, but I'm convinced. I need to get through that door.

_**Day 4: Guards and doors**_

I woke up this morning from a fitful sleep. Throughout the night I was caught up in thoughts of the door. Yesterday I was certain that Varvur Sarethi would be found behind the right hand door of Venim manor's entry hall. I am still certain, but there was no way to be certain enough. I couldn't just walk into the private home of the Archmaster of the house and start blasting his guards.

I spent the morning at the guild hall, catching up on reports. Plans came and went. None seemed workable. I went to Sarethi manor for lunch, burdened with doubts.

"If you are right the council will be torn apart," Sarethi said.

"I'm as certain as I can be without getting through that door. The Archmaster must have some way to explain himself though. There would be no way to explain to you, obviously, but he would have to have something he could tell the other council members. Some accusation he could make. He would have to be able to say your son was arrested, not abducted."

"And you would be taking a great risk. Helping a prisoner escape is much different than rescuing a councilman's son."

"Yes," I agreed. "A great risk with a great reward, possibly." His eyes narrowed. I realized too late that that sounded very...mercenary. "What I meant Lord Sarethi, is that house Redoran would be much more comfortable for a Breton like myself if someone other than Bolvyn Venim were the Archmaster of the house. If he has abducted your son, and if that can be proven to the rest of the council, it would be a boon to me."

"Someone other than Bolvyn Venim. Delicately put Arvil Bren. I must admit that the fall of Bolvyn Venim is attractive to consider. But mostly I want my son back. Get him out of there."

My concerns mounted as I returned to the guild hall. Am I being set up? Sarethi's pawn for bringing down Venim? I decided that my plan would include some assistance from Sarethi. If he is going to benefit he would have to take some of the risk. If he refused, that would tell me something. He didn't.

Sarethi had no trouble coming up with a reason to visit the Archmaster. He stumbled at the door quite naturally. A humbling experience no doubt. I slipped through the open door while he gathered his balance. One of the great difficulties of invisibility is that people get very interested in doors that open by themselves.

By the time the spell wore off I was well hidden in the planter. That gave me nothing more than a good view of the door on the right side of the entry hall. The door to the left leads to the guard quarters. That was pretty obvious when the guards changed shifts. The short hallway opposite the entrance leads to the inner quarters of the Venim family. Unfortunately the guards flanking that hallway had no lapse in their attention. Even when the room was briefly left completely empty they stood stiffly at attention; no conversation, no sitting on the uncomfortable benches...no opportunity to open the right hand door unobserved.

Disguises. I teleported out of the planter. I chose a moment when the entry hall was filled with chattering servants. The slight popping sound should have gone undetected. I considered using an intervention spell that would have dropped me at the temple in Ald-ruhn, but gave myself an excuse to come home instead. I am still haunted by the short time I will be able to spend with Ahnassi, and the long life that stretches beyond that for me.

It was a good excuse. I appeared at my target mark in the hallway of the house. The hallway is my storage area. I turned slowly in a circle, assessing all the armor I have collected. The standard issue bonemold of a Redoran guard; I could piece that together. The closed face helmet would hide me well enough. Unfortunately Venim's personal guards seemed to be uniformly arrayed in heavy armor of Dwemer metal. I could be anonymous in the guard's mail, but wouldn't blend in.

Dwemer metal plate. I have a full set of that as well. No help there either really. Going to an armorer and asking for a set of 'Dwemer plate armor' is a misunderstanding. My Dwemer metal plate is serviceable, but not an effective disguise. Every set is different. The Dwemer seldom made armor. The Dwemer were sorcerers, not warriors. Armorers, particularly good armorers, cobble together sets of armor from scrap pieces that are gathered from fallen centurions. I've done it myself, though my skills don't measure up to Wyan in Balmora. Venim's guards can probably recognize each other just as well from their distinctive armor as from each others faces.

I have to get through that door. I can't just walk in there and start killing guards. Magic. Magic is the answer.

_**Day 5: Murderer or pawn?**_

Magic. As a Breton my life has been lived within the swirling mists that magic reveals reality to be. Many wizards, the former Archmage Trebonius for example, lean heavily on the destructive power that can be unleashed by their spellcraft. My own craft has always been more subtle. The school of alteration lends itself to changing reality; making objects heavier or lighter, water breathable as air or solid as earth, forming armors of air or elemental energies. I could not resort to destruction to effect a rescue, so I looked the other direction; into the even more subtle school of illusion.

I bid a lingering farewell to Ahnassi and transported myself into Balmora. When I appeared in the courtyard of the temple I quickly surveyed my surroundings, and finding my arrival unobserved called on the shadow shield to make myself invisible. I did not want anyone to wonder at the Archmage of Vvardenfell visiting Nine-Toes the Hunter. Neither of us is identified as a member of the Blades and we both prefer to keep it that way. I reappeared on his upper balcony and ducked quickly inside.

"Arvil Bren! It is our pleasure to greet you!" hissed the Argonian.

"The pleasure is mine Nine-Toes." I struggled again with the pronouns. Argonians refer to themselves in the plural so naturally that it is sometimes difficult not to follow suit. I have been told that to do so would be an insult, but find myself struggling. "I need some guidance my friend."

"As when you were merely an apprentice it is our pleasure to serve." Nine-Toes was my first mentor in the Blades.

"You have used your mastery of illusion to make me invisible before," I began. "I am skilled enough to manage that quite well on my own now, but there are challenges."

"Many; for those who are not practiced," said Nine-Toes.

"Yes. " It is surprising how important it is to see yourself when you move. Picking up an object with an invisible hand is an exercise in clumsiness. "There is a huge difference between being invisible and acting invisibly."

"You speak a truth Arvil Bren. Objects that move on their own, doors that open and close by themselves, sounds without origin; since most people are familiar with the powers of illusion these things are not mysteries, they are evidence."

"So here's my problem," I said, and outlined the situation.

Some time later Nine-Toes stepped out onto his balcony, pacing in the restless way of the Argonians. Through the door he left open I made my own invisible exit, gliding past him without a collision. I let the invisibility lapse in the temple court while casting a minor noise making spell. The soft popping sound of the spell matched my sudden appearance. Anyone noting my arrival and hearing the sound would think 'teleportation'. Nine-Toes had stressed that illusion is less about being undetected than about misdirected detection. I bustled to the guild hall and took transport to Ald-Ruhn.

Heem-la is another Argonian, and a spellsmith. Since I already knew a couple of basic invisibility spells it was not difficult for him to create a spell for me that would allow me to turn another person invisible. He is Edwinna's highest ranked subordinate and took great satisfaction in being of service, but I insisted on paying him the going rate for his craft. I also paid Tanar a fair price for the belt she enchanted for me.

Nine-Toes had said "don't waste invisibility when anonymity will serve", and I was well prepared to follow that guidance. While most of my alchemy studies were directed at the magical properties of various substances I had learned many other useful things. Substances that will stain my pale Breton skin a fair imitation of the Dunmer's grey hues are not uncommon. With the full bonemold armor and closed helm of a Redoran guard my darkened hands completed the picture well enough to pass at a distance. I avoided any close contact, where I would be given away by the lack of gleaming red eyes peering out through the slit of my visor.

"Misdirection can take many forms," Nine-Toes had said, "and often the more physical the form the better." A Redoran guard entering the great shell Skar was nothing remarkable, and it was not difficult to make my way to the vicinity of Venim manor. A word of activation and my belt produced a fine distraction, a towering atronach from the dimension of elemental fire. Any of the guards who failed to notice the ruddy glow and roaring flames could not escape my shout of "wizardry!" as I drew a gleaming but non-descript silver longsword and slashed it about. The atronach charged the manor door and smashed it open before it went down under a barrage of blows from the guards who swarmed around it. Who would notice one guard more or less? I disappeared and slipped into the manor through the smoldering wreckage of the doorway.

The second atronach never stood a chance. It materialized between the front door, where the guards had hardly drawn breath or had time to think since the first one had fallen, and the planter where I had quickly secreted myself. It charged towards the inner quarters and was met by the two heavily armored guards there. The Redoran regulars swarmed after it in its futile assault. During the brief tumult no one could say which armored Redoran had opened the right hand door to shout a warning, but by the time additional members of Venim's personal guard had charged into the room the fight was over. Again, who would notice one guard more or less? I slipped invisibly down the hallway beyond the door.

In a large chamber at the heart of the right wing of the manor I found a guard who had not responded to the alarm at the front door. Instead she had taken a position in another hall, listening closely and with her sword sweeping gently from side to side. It seemed odd that she should guard an empty hall, and I immediately wondered if the tapestry at the far end might conceal the object of my invasion. I crept to an upper balcony. Another bit of Nine-Toes guidance; "to master illusion you must master yourself, a powerful illusion must be built on a foundation of patience."

I waited upstairs. Retainers returned from the fracas at the entry. They began a careful search of the area, long spears sweeping about, prodding into corners. I levitated down into their cleared area, avoiding the guarded stairways, then watched silently as they moved on to clear the upper floor. Eventually they were satisfied and returned to their routine. The woman, who the others called Malsa Ules, took a key and stepped behind the tapestry. Checking on the prisoner. Again I waited.

Locks are based on small objects that hold larger objects in place unless they are repositioned correctly by the appropriate key. No lock can stand against sufficient mastery of alteration. The tumblers of the lock on the door behind the tapestry lost their substance and the bolt slipped freely through them. I ducked into the cell beyond.

I took my time explaining the escape plan to Varvur Sarethi. The difficulties of operating invisibly would be greatly compounded when there were two of us. The problems were balanced though, by knowing where we were going.

We crept invisibly down the hallway. Malsa Ules paced at the opening ahead of us, spear waving unpredictably, sharp ears listening. We pressed flat to the wall and waited for our distraction. The spell of silence I had cast in Varvur's cell expended its limited power, and the guard's head snapped around. The fire I had started in the cell had silently grown to an inferno, and when the spell lapsed it was fairly roaring. Smoke was beginning to curl from the tapestry hanging in front of the open cell door. She charged down the hall, and we fled as soon as she had passed.

The guards in the entry hall had no time to react when the inner door burst open. A Redoran guard rushing through and out the front door made no sense, obviously, but in the seconds it took for me to pass through with my invisible charge close on my heels there was little they could do. I threw in a confusing but true shout of 'fire!' for good measure. I continued to shout once I had cleared the door, again bringing the guards swarming, giving my own armored self some cover as Varvur slid invisibly under the rope railing and tumbled down the steep slope of the shell. In the great open space under Skar it was very easy to get lost. I levitated away from the catwalks and winked into invisibility.

As planned, Lord Athyn Sarethi stepped out of his manor to investigate the uproar, leaving the door open behind him. I made enough noise from high in the dome to keep the guards attention as Varvur raced home. Eventually Sarethi gave in to the guards urging, and for his own safety returned to his manor and locked the door behind himself. How long the guards raced about with their spears waving I have no idea. I teleported home.

Bolvyn Venim had accused Varvur Sarethi of murder, a charge Varvur may not be able to defend himself against. Venim would claim he held Varvur quietly during the investigation to protect Sarethi. Sarethi would claim Venim had taken his son to prevent disclosure of the plot on Sarethi's life. Either way, I am firmly stuck in the middle of a struggle for the ultimate power of the Redoran council. I hope I've backed the right guar in this race.

_**Day 6: A good name**_

The council is in an uproar. Bolvyn Venim and Athyn Sarethi look to me like they could come to blows at any moment. Venim's guards were on edge, the regular guards assigned to the council hall were on edge, and I was happy to wait outside the chambers during most of the meeting.

I returned to Ald-ruhn this morning, openly. Though I am not yet considered a cousin of the house, and would not even consider openly pursuing the title of Hortator, I have developed a degree of respect and reputation. Sufficient reputation that the council has chosen me to lead an expansion project at Bal Isra.

Bolvyn Venim was clearly opposed, but his grip on the council is slipping. With the murder of Bralen Carvaren hanging over Varvur he is in no position to make any accusations so Sarethi did not openly denounce Venim for his misuse of the Morag Tong, but Sarethi is certainly emboldened by his own knowledge. With his leadership my growing popularity with the rest of the council was enough to carry the debate.

The rancor at the council meeting left no doubt that I am firmly in Sarethi's camp. I considered the diplomacy of accepting his invitation to return with him to Sarethi manor after the meeting, but Venim's baleful glare showed that I had nothing to lose.

"It seems I've made an enemy," I said as we entered the manor.

"Yes. Fortunately you have made more friends. Venim can be a powerful adversary. No one knows that better than I do. Thankfully he has other problems on his mind. So do I." We continued our conversation as we passed into the guard quarters. "I can't believe that Varvur would kill Bralen Carvaren," Sarethi said. "They were friends. Good friends."

"Venim wouldn't have used that pretext to grab him if he didn't think he could make it stick," I said.

"True. And unfortunately Varvur is not much help." He opened a door and we entered Varvur's room.

The younger Sarethi looked much more in his element, dressed in the rich brocades of a Redoran noble rather than the ragged prison garb he sported yesterday, but his eyes were haunted. "Thank you again for rescuing me kinsman," he said as he rose.

"You are welcome sir," I replied.

"Rescue is just a beginning though," said Lord Sarethi. "Varvur, we have to get your name cleared. And you have to help."

"I wish I could father. I am so sure that I didn't kill Bralen, but these dreams..."

I was looking around the room. To my surprise a sixth house ash statue stood atop a chest near the door. "Dreams?" I asked.

"I have vivid dreams...dreams where I am killing Bralen...but they started before Bralen was killed...we laughed about them. But then he really was killed."

"And when you remember the dreams you wonder if one of them wasn't a dream," I guessed.

"Yes." His face fell. "I don't know. I can't believe it could be real, but the dreams are so realistic...all of them..."

"Where did you get this?" I asked, gesturing to the ash statue. The red gem eyes glittered evilly in the torchlight.

"It..." he hesitated. "It was a gift." He seemed puzzled.

"A gift? When did you get it?"

"I...have I always had it?"

His father looked concerned. "I've never seen it," he said. "Or anything like it."

"I have. It's a symbol of the Sixth House cult. Who gave it to you?"

"So strange," said the young Sarethi. "I can't remember. It's like it has always been there."

The elder Sarethi didn't need to hear any more. "Arvil Bren, take the statue to the temple. Lloros Sarano is a good friend of our family. Have him examine this thing. Perhaps he can shed some light." He sat next to his son, looking stricken.

I delivered the statue. The priest, Sarano, will have to make a more detailed examination, but at first glance believes the statue may have somehow controlled the younger Sarethi. I reported that much to Lord Sarethi and returned home. We did not discuss anything further as he was anxious to return to his son, but I doubt that Varvur will ever be a credible witness to Venim's wrongdoings.

_**Day 7: Strange strangers**_

Nerevarine, Hortator, Archmage of Vvardenfell; none of my titles, either current or hoped for, would be honored by my current state of drunkenness. Languishing in Ebonheart hoping for an audience with Duke Vedam Dren, staying in an inn frequented by off duty Imperial Legions, it just seemed to be the thing to do. A break.

This morning I certainly saw when the need to take breaks is ignored too long. I spent much of the day in company with a trader I met on the road, Teris Raledran. Company, I think, is what Teris desperately needed, though initially he suggested traveling together for safety on the road to Vivec. He insisted on compensating me for protecting him and his companion Rollie, even though the Vivec Road through the Ascadian Isles is still among the safest stretches in Vvardenfell.

It didn't take long to realize that Teris needed a break, or at least someone to talk to. He probably doesn't think so. He included Rollie in the conversation as much as he included me. Rollie is a guar. Needless to say he was not talking, a condition that Teris attributed to Rollie being 'shy with strangers'. I wanted to scream 'he isn't talking because he is a GUAR!', but I refrained. It takes all kinds.

For my trouble I was led to a fantastic shop located incongruously in the canalworks of the foreign quarter of Vivec. Agrippina Herrenia has the finest inventory of clothing I've seen in Vvardenfell, much of it apparently delivered on the back of Rollie the Guar...who Agrippina has also never heard speak.

At any rate, after a brief check at my office in Vivec I delivered myself to Castle Ebonheart. I successfully got myself placed on the Duke's agenda for tomorrow and checked myself into the Six Fishes. The food is good, and the huge Nord behind the bar pours with a very liberal hand, making it no surprise that the place is a favored haunt of the legions.

Fortunately the garrison here in Ebonheart seems to be mostly Cyrodiils. Far more refined than the numerous Orcs recruited for the frontiers, and much easier to drink with. I should be able to make tomorrow's appointment with a minimal hangover.

_**Day 8: Power of the Hlaalu**_

I have received a land grant from the Duke. Since the land is in Redoran territory and the grant was approved by the Redoran administration that was really a forgone conclusion, but the experience has certainly given me an insight into the governance of the Imperial province.

The Dren family has a long relationship with House Hlaalu, and it seems clear that Duke Vedam Dren would not be impartial in a dispute. The outrages of the Cammona Tong, for example, would certainly meet greater resistance if the head of the Tong were not the Duke's own brother. This level of corruption would be completely intolerable, but the Empire bears the brunt of the costs and I have little interest in their problems. Dagoth Ur and the blight are problem enough. I must keep an eye to the future however. If the Empire withdraws House Hlaalu will be far more vulnerable, and House Redoran must be poised to rise.

So I find myself performing a service for Archmaster Bolvyn Venim, even though the Archmaster is the key opposition to my own rise in the house. Our house has two key points that strengthen our position; superior warriors and honorable behavior. That honor is being widely smeared by the Hlaalu.

The rumor is that Bolvyn Venim is having an adulterous affair with the wife of another Redoran council member. I have heard nothing of this in Ald-ruhn, and cannot imagine such a rumor spreading elsewhere without being heard at the source. Such a smear could easily be a Hlaalu ploy. Perhaps it is only paranoia, but I even thought I saw a bit of a smirk from the Duke when he mentioned the 'honor of House Redoran'.

So I am here in Balmora. The Eight Plates, the Southwall, the Lucky Lock-up, the Council Club; a thorough pub crawl in the company of my old friend Arathor. The gregarious Bosmer provided the perfect opportunity to hear all the gossip, and clearly the source of the rumors about Venim was a petty Hlaalu noble, Ondres Nerano. I paid him a late visit.

"Either prove your words, or pay for them," I challenged, after I had explained why I was there. I briefly hoped there would be proof...proof that could bring Venim down. But there was none.

"I don't have to prove anything about Redorans," Nerano blustered.

"No you don't," I countered "It seems odd though. I would think you would want to. I'm returning to Ald-ruhn in the morning. If I return with this rumor it will go nowhere, but if you have proof it would surely disrupt House Redoran. So the only reason I can see for you to not produce proof would be that you don't have any."

"Nor do I need any! I don't fear the overblown reputation of Redoran warriors, and I certainly don't fear you."

A duel was obviously in the offing. Killing a Hlaalu noble in the middle of Balmora would have been a problem, and would have done little to reduce the already prevalent rumor. A non-lethal duel would serve better, and terms were quickly agreed upon.

Arathor served as my second, and a member of Nerano's household was his. We all agreed that truth would obviously side with the victor, so if I won Nerano would publicly apologize for repeating a tale which had now been proven to him to be false. For my part if he won I would provide him with 'confirmation from a member of house Redoran' that the story was true.

Nerano proved to be a stout pugilist. The Hlaalu pride themselves on their skill with short blades, which tends to train them for quickness of hand. Fortunately my own practices with the spear and heavier armors gave me a base of endurance that my months of traveling on Vvardenfell have raised to a high standard.

He circled steadily to his left, firing stinging jabs. I slipped most of them, but must admit that they hurt when they connected. When I did slip past the jab he would quickly cover up, with his forearms protecting his head and his elbows in tight, preventing serious blows to the body. A most frustrating foe.

Frustrating, but not unbeatable. I'm sure that he has beaten many other fighters who impatiently wore themselves out with useless blows against his arms, but tonight he met a wiser opponent. When he covered up I backed off rather than let him lean his weight against me and wear me down. Sneaking my own jab between his hands after I backed off eventually broke him down. A cut opened above his left eye, and drizzling blood began to cloud his vision.

Blinking furiously he stepped up his own attack, packing flurried combinations behind the consistent jab. I counterpunched effectively while slipping most of his blows. Eventually he had to yield. The honor of the house has been redeemed.

_**Day 9: Will they ever learn?**_

I awoke this morning in my room at the Southwall Cornerclub, thinking that the honor of House Redoran had been safely restored. I had not finished breakfast before I found out that I had just gotten started. Hibasi, the local contact for the thieve's guild, slid into the opposing chair at my table with feline grace and ruined my day.

"Arathor tells me you fought a duel last night," she purred.

I nodded, wondering what this was leading up to.

"I am surprised."

"Why? I've been accepted by the Redoran House. Nerano was slandering our Archmaster. He needed a good thrashing."

"And no one better than you to do it."

Life with Ahnassi, my own Khajiit, has taught me to penetrate the well known inscrutability. Well known, but not real. I think it's an offshoot of that even more false idea; 'they all look alike'. Anyway, I could see that Habasi was amused, and had a 'secret'; the most prized possession of a Khajiit. "What?" I asked, knowing that she would not give me the smallest piece without significant wheedling, and that she would not let me go until I had gotten the whole story.

Eventually I dug out the story. Habasi's surprise was not that I was upholding the House honor, but that I had come for Nerano. His tale of infidelity may have been embarrassing to the Archmaster, but Meril Hlaano has been directly attacking the honor of the House at its core. Apparently he has 'explained' House Hlaalu's success in Caldera as a result of clandestine bribes and common lowly behavior by Redorans.

So I returned to the Eight Plates for lunch. Meril Hlaano, another bottom feeder from house Hlaalu, was indeed holding forth in the bar.

"Interesting theory," I interrupted as I slipped up behind him.

He took in the bruise on my cheek and got cocky. "More than a theory, outlander."

"You might want to be careful who you call 'outlander'. Your own house is accepting us now, and so is mine."

"The Empire is here, and wealthy. House Hlaalu knows how to make the best of that."

"House Redoran doesn't look at things the same way. They only accepted me because I could meet their requirements; honor, for example. Something you should develop. Quickly."

"Says who, outlander? Give me a name so I can talk about you too."

I grinned. A Hluulu guard stepped close. "Excellency," he said, "you have heard the story of the destruction of the Dark Brotherhood in Mournhold?"

"Of course," the petty noble snapped. "The outlander assassins were swept by the Mage's Guild."

"Not exactly," the guard said. "It _was_ the Archmage of the guild, but at the time he was not the Archmage. That was later, after he killed the previous Archmage in a duel. I would have thought that after he came back with a stack of Dark Brotherhood chainmail that would stagger a pack guar that the Cyrodiil would have turned the guild over peacefully."

"Dark Brotherhood chain? You can get that anywhere. Every armorer in Balmora has it."

"They all got it from me," I said quietly. "I had so much it was impossible to keep from saturating the market."

"From you?" His eyes widened.

"Excellency, this is Arvil Bren, the Archmage of Vvardenfell," said the guard. "I didn't want a duel on my watch, Archmage, especially during my lunch," he said after Hlaanu had beaten a hasty retreat.

"No problem," I said. "Keep him quiet?"

"Agreed. I respect my own House, of course, but there is no doubt that the Redorans have their honor."

_**Day 10: Redoran Canton**_

I have returned to Vivec. Even though Ald-ruhn is the Council seat of House Redoran, the Canton in the capital houses many of the critical functions of the house, including the treasury. I met with Faral Retheran concerning the finances for the Bal Isra project, and ended up dining with her at the Flowers of Gold Cornerclub. She is an excellent and dedicated member of the house, but I suspect the comforts and style of Vivec City suit her better than the frontiers of the Ashlands, even buffered by the manor district under Skar.

We feasted on a spectacular dinner, from a menu that would not have been presented to me had I not been in her company. As the Archmage I command a certain respect in the capital, but the Flowers of Gold is in the heart of the Redoran Canton. Like the foreign quarter canton the huge structure rising out of the bay is a city unto itself. The common laws of the capital apply, but the cantons operate by their own unwritten rules. Now that I have been introduced to the proprietor and staff as a respected member of the house I will enjoy the full services, but before that the reception at the Flowers would have been chilly at best. To solidify my position I opted to stay here tonight and enjoy the accommodations.

As expected, I will be bearing the brunt of the costs for Bal Isra myself. The benefits will far outstrip the costs however. Though I will not tolerate slaves or slavers, I will be holding a manor title that gives me rights over the surrounding area and its tenants. Since I am not concerned with profiting from the land I expect I will not find it difficult to be popular with those tenants, and they will provide a level of security for myself and Ahnassi. A Breton holding title is a huge step for the Dunmer. A Khajit as lady of the manor signals the completion of a revolution in their society. It is a great day.

Unfortunately it is a day that has not yet reached a safe sunset. Faral accepted it. Living here in Vivec, which has always been the most cosmopolitan city in Vvardenfell, smoothed the way. She did not soften her words in the slightest with her predictions though. "Bolvyn Venim will not live to see the day that an Outlander holds such a title," she said. I wondered if this was an almost treasonous comment, but she clarified it quickly. She insisted that I deposit the full funds for Bal Isra with her in the morning, since she believes Venim will kill me before it is completed.

Naturally, with a charming dinner companion and a brain full of flin, the strong, smooth liquor of the Empire, I let dead whiskers get my tail in a crack, as Ahnassi would say. In the morning, after depositing the funds, I will be going on a 'little errand' for Faral Retheran. A little errand to claim three priceless artifacts from the tomb of a family that has shifted its loyalties away from House Redoran in recent generations. The expectation is that the ancestral ghosts of the Redas will relinquish the items to a Redoran. I find that doubtful. I suspect those who have been previously dispatched on this errand would agree. None of them have returned.

_**Day 11: A long ride and a worn cloak**_

I have secured a bed at The Pilgrim's Rest in Molag Mar without being recognized. Not much of a feat, since I have never been here before, but Vvardenfell is a small island in some ways and I have developed a reputation. I am proud to have been accepted by House Redoran, and could have expected an appropriate welcome from the Redoran garrison here, but I think it will be best in the long run if I complete my errand and be on my way without being noticed. How to accomplish that was nagging me as soon as my eyes opened.

I arose this morning with the dawn and enjoyed a brisk walk through the rising mists of Vivec City. The Redoran compound is directly adjacent to the foreign quarter, and it is amazing how far I had to walk to get from the Golden Flowers to the guild headquarters. When I stepped out the doorway on the waistworks level of the Redoran Canton I could easily have hit the waistworks door of the foreign quarter with an arrow, or even a well thrown knife, but to get there involved the ramps down to the lower promenade, then the bridge across, and more ramps back up to the top. I arrived refreshed, exercised, and hungry for breakfast.

The guild headquarters is flourishing out of the shadow of the Archmage. Malven invited me to join the breakfast table, where the light chatter defied the consequence of the guild's headquarters. As I had suggested breakfast was held separate from the trials of the day. Afterwards the guild steward accompanied me to my office. "Always good to see you Archmage. The most recent report from Balmora is here." She added a folder to the stack on my desk; not an unmanageable pile, but larger than I would have preferred. I tucked the entire stack into my pack. "You'll be leaving I take it?" she said with a slight smile.

"As always, Malven. When I put you in charge I said I couldn't do what I do best if I was tucked away in this hall, and you do quite well without me under foot."

"The guides keep me, and the other stewards, apprised of your whereabouts...at least most of the time, Archmage. Are you keeping yourself well? Ranis has told me about your propensity for travel when you were a journeyman, but we worry that your Breton constitution might wear out on us."

"I've been...upgraded, you might say Malven. Don't worry." As I said that, and hefted my pack, heavy with reports, I was picturing a sleepless night, and not looking forward to it. Is there a limit to the endurance my brush with the corprus has given me?

I had the guides teleport me to Ald-ruhn, where I hurried into the council hall and met with the Redoran architect, Galsa Gindu. She will begin construction on the Bal Isra stronghold immediately. I left, emerging from the great emperor crab shell called Skar into surprisingly bright sunshine streaming down from a cloudless blue sky. Ald-ruhn, being in the Ashlands, has been scourged by the ashstorms blowing down from Red Mountain, and it was a pleasant surprise to see a pretty day.

I have a theory that if you let enough problems pile up they will start to solve each other, and the clear skies pushed some of the swirling pieces into place. More than the clear skies, I suppose, it was the sight of the silt strider port towering over the walls of the city. I cocked my head in thought, and as if by divine intervention one of the great creatures appeared. Its six long tapering legs devoured the distance in a blink, and I was still watching as it sidled up to the port.

I raced back to the guild hall, where I still keep the room that Edwinna gave me long ago. I left my staff and wrapped myself in a battered cloak. The stacked reports fit nicely in a well worn travel bag from my pilgrim days. I shouted a quick "Molag Mar" to Edwinna as I scurried out the door.

Travel by strider is, of course, nowhere near as fast as teleporting, but it is surprising how fast those long legged beasts can go. I had time enough to skim all the reports and draft some notes for the guild stewards that I dropped off while changing caravans in Balmora, then gave them a careful, but relaxed, review. When the daylight failed the task was complete, and I could enjoy the night sky from the rolling back of the strider as it plunged on through the darkness. I arrived rested, unremarked, and with my duties as Archmage up to date. The striders carried me over half the length of Vvardenfell.

Perhaps I will have to thank Dagoth Ur for the timing of this one beautiful day.

_**Day 12: Confidence**_

Nerevarine...Moon and star...Azura's chosen...

All of those identities swirled through my mind as it dredged up from the blackness. I opened my left eye. The other was crusted shut with dried blood. I remembered the swirl of purple magica engulfing me, the falling axe.

A sharp hiss from my right caught my attention, and I tried to turn my head. Searing pain howled as my head flopped sideways, and I saw Ahnassi's striped face as the blackness smashed over me again.

Archmage...Archmage...

I opened my eyes, both of them. The blood had been cleaned away.

Ranis stood over me. "You have to get control," she said sternly, concern clouding her red eyes. She glimmered, as if through a thin veil of energy. The blackness rose again, more slowly.

Arvil Bren...

I didn't open my eyes immediately, savoring the new clarity of this return to consciousness. Slowly I raised the lids. Without moving my head I scanned the room; my room, Ahnassi's house. She paced, slowly, at the foot of the bed. Her tail dragged with exhaustion. "Ahnassi." My voice was a croak.

She rushed to my side, grabbing a small vial from the night table. I recognized the tang of a restorative potion, and my eyes drifted shut once again.

Life...

"He finally gathered sufficient awareness." The gravelly voice of an Orc. Sharn gra-Muzgob.

I opened my eyes again. Healing magica washed over me in a soothing stream. I smiled my thanks at the tusked green face.

"You've been surrounded by resistance and reflection for days, ever since you appeared." Ranis' dark face slid into view, the red eyes deeply weary. I could feel the exhaustion inside me. The fires of magica that normally glowed within were banked to dim embers. "Ahnassi kept you from bleeding to death through more conventional means. She was the only one who could touch you." Scorch marks on the ceiling; someone else had obviously tried. I hoped they were alright.

A low profile; lightly armed; in keeping with my pilgrim disguise. Over-confident, I had charged the golden saint with my shortsword. The Daedric guardian's mocking laughter still rings in my ears, and my dreams are plagued by the flash of the great glass axe.

But I still live.

_**Day 13: Return to the tomb**_

I again took the silt strider to Molag Mar. Today I hurried through the morning mists of the Ascadian Isles to the strider port just north of Vivec City and reached Molag Mar around noon. This time the ride was somber. My overconfidence shattered, I was plagued by doubts. I wondered if this errand was too far off the path of the Nerevarine, if Azura had guided the golden saint's hand in an effort to put me back on course. No matter. I knew I could not move forward without returning to the tomb. If nothing else, failure would lose the support of the Redoran treasurer, a fatal blow to my quest to be called Hortator.

I did not enter Molag Mar, or follow the trail that had led me to the tomb the first time. I left the strider port and levitated over the ridge to the south, descending directly before the stone arch that marked the entrance. By speeding on my course like an arrow in flight I left no room for hesitation or doubt.

I crept silently down the stairs. The door at the bottom of the stair stood slightly ajar. I pushed it gently with the tip of the ebony spear I had armed myself with for this rematch. The chamber within was spattered with gore. The golden saint, mightiest of the Daedric servants, obviously considers cleaning up to be a task for lesser beings. The spot where I fell was marked by a pool of blood, dried to blackness in the torchlight.

The golden saint, with its great glass axe, was absent. A storm atronach paced the chamber. I charged, the sharpened ebony point sheared through the binding mists, and the elemental energies burst their bonds in a roar of thunder. The misty form writhed as the atronach tried to maintain its unwelcome presence in the mortal plane, but a crushing overhand blow from the ebony shaft drove it to the floor, where it stilled and began to dissipate.

I had been knocked to my knees by a similar blow from the saint's axe. The volcanic glass axe had cleaved through my shoulder and deep into my chest. In a sense I too had dissipated, gulping the recall potion I carry for the most dire emergencies. I have no idea how Ahnassi kept me from bleeding to death when I appeared at the house. Released from my conscious control the magica stream that channels through me had wrecked havoc, but perhaps it helped keep me alive, even though it had overwhelmed all efforts to heal my near dead body.

I had no time for these considerations as I stood in the entry chamber of the tomb. A daedroth burst into the chamber from the columned passage leading into the depths. A bolt of green ichorous magica streamed from its taloned hands, and I dodged towards the exit as it splashed off the walls.

The daedroth leapt in pursuit, crocodile jaws snapping. Using my position on the stairs to bring my weight down with the blow I drove the spear through the heavy scales of its hide. It roared in pain and fury and released another blast of poison. I countered with a resistance spell, leaving the spear lodged in the beasts heaving chest, and backed rapidly up the stairs. Clawing at the heavy spear that hampered its climb kept the daedroth from charging after me, and I rained arrows upon it from the top of the stair until it lay dead.

In a small chapel off the entry chamber I found two of the three artifacts that Faral had sent me to recover. Had I found the third I may have left the tomb rather than seek vengeance on the golden saint. I was not conceding to fear, I was just willing to leave the creature with its victory. Perhaps.

Marshalling my courage I crept further into the tomb. The steps from which the daedroth had emerged were wide and shallow, with a row of columns down the center holding a high arched ceiling. I checked carefully behind the pillars. A passage led deeper, and I pressed on.

The passage ended in a gallery, a wide balcony surrounding a central stairwell. A scamp, one of the least of the Daedric servants, scurried about. The creature was barely tall enough to be seen over the stone parapets. I crouched low, nocked an arrow in the Bone-biter bow, and rose slowly in the shadowy arch of the passage. The arrow caught the scamp just below its pointed ear, a bare inch above the parapet.

The stairs descended from an opening in the parapet, flanked by stone trioliths faced with gold. Just below the floor level dark waters lapped at the stone steps. I placed a small offering on each of the shrines. The water was cold.

Aided by a water breathing spell I searched the depths until I found a narrow passage. I felt through the darkness until it opened into a wider hall with a higher ceiling. A stair led up out of the water at the far end, but I wanted to see more. A spell of buoyancy to counter the weight of my equipment brought me to the small pocket between the ceiling and the surface of the dark water. I could see into a large chamber above the stair.

Clawed feet crossed my view in an oddly hopping gait, followed by a dragging segmented tail that ended in a fearsome stinger. I eased forward to see more of the monster, hoping that it would again cross my field of vision; a strange thing to hope for. Above the clawed feet rose a shapely female figure, marred by huge bat-like wings and crowned with a visage of furious hatred.

My early training in archery came, fortunately, from friends of my adopted father. Friends of unsavory character made in the thieves' guild. While I learned the traditional erect stance of the bowman that young nobles are taught, I also was trained in the more subtle stances that stealth may demand. I crouched on the steps with the water lapping around my chest, holding my bow horizontally to keep both limbs free.

The nightmarish creature of the void died of rage. The shrieking face twisted in fury. The venomous tail lashed the water in front of me. The taloned feet sliced through the air like razor sharp daggers. But the great buffeting wings held the creature out of the passage. In its madness it could not manage to fold its wings to enter, and in its outrage it could not stay away from the narrow opening despite the hail of arrows that eventually dropped it to the stone floor.

The creature did not have the calm malice of a golden saint. I did not realize the depths of that icy resolve. The saint could stand idly as the monster battered itself against the constraints of the chamber. It watched as the monster collapsed with its icy blood flowing from a dozen wounds. It lurked in the shadows of the chamber until I had crept in to prod the lifeless creature with the ebony spear. The whistle of the falling axe alerted me, but not really in time.

Once again the great glass axe struck. Once again my lifeblood splattered the unfeeling stone of the Redas tomb. Once more the dry triumphant laughter of the golden saint rang in my ears. This time though I kept my feet. Holding my lifeless left arm clamped to my body with my right hand I fled the chamber, instantly turning the watery passage redly opaque as I dove off the stair. I clung to consciousness and gulped a restorative potion that began a rapid healing process. As soon as my arm began responding to my control I started casting additional spells to hasten my recovery.

The saint pursued me into the water; a mistake on its part. Magica swirled and flowed, freeing my movements from all encumbrance while the water slowed the glittering arc of the great axe. I struck the armored chest with my open palm and the warrior was enveloped in magical flame and a blinding scalding steam. It recognized its error and began a thrashing retreat from the clinging water. A second spell of destruction again veiled its sight with steam as well as blistering the metallic skin. Beneath the billowing steam and blood clouded waters I struck with my shortsword, severing golden tendons from the heel, reducing the mighty warrior to a crawl as it returned to the chamber.

I stood over the fallen foe without malice. I dispatched it quickly, without a sense of revenge, and without weaving the spells that would have trapped its energies in a soulgem. Although it would be of great value in my enchantments, I chose not to bear the reminder of my close brush with death.

A large ash pit dominated the chamber, and gleaming on the lip of it rested the Redas waraxe. I seized this third relic and slowly wove the spell of recall. This time my appearance at home was triumphant, to Ahnassi's great relief.

_**Day 14: Cheats and deceits**_

I brought the Redas artifacts to Vivec City this morning. As I strolled the path from Pelagiad I pondered my next move. I expected that my success at the tomb would surprise and impress the treasurer, Faral Retheran, but probably not win her outright support. Whether to spend more time getting familiar with the Redorans of Vivec or return to Ald-ruhn was an open question. It was open until I arrived in the city at least.

The mid-morning sun streamed down as I crossed the bridge from the shore of the bay onto the wide decking of the foreign quarter canton. As usual there were heavily armed Ordinators pacing their rounds. They almost always recognize me, and since I am known to have completed quite a few pilgrimages in the Temple they normally give me a friendly greeting. Much to my surprise I walked past two Ordinators who seemed to barely notice me. They were engrossed in animated conversation! Not like Ordinators at all! As I passed I heard one saying "...certainly not like a Redoran to...", but I couldn't make out the rest. I picked up my pace. Whatever had happened, it seemed better to get information from Faral in the treasury than gossip on the streets.

I got information that was accurate, but it certainly wasn't good. Last night the arena had filled with boisterous spectators, anxious to witness a duel to the death between a couple of minor nobles. Most disputes are settled in a less final, less dramatic fashion. A duel to first drawn blood is common. Death matches, being infrequent, draw a huge crowd. In the honor bound society of the Dunmer great houses it is unthinkable that someone would not show up. But the crowd was disappointed last night; Rothis Nethan, a minor noble of House Redoran, did not appear for the match. It was hard to say if Faral was more shocked or apoplectic.

"It is an outrage against the honor of our house!" she fairly screamed.

"Yes." Clearly, she was right, so I agreed quickly. Not quickly enough. Her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets before I could get my one word out. "There must be some explanation," I continued.

That was a mistake. I thought a vein in the side of her neck was going to burst. "Explanation? Ex...pla...na...tion! There is NO explaining! If he were dead, maybe, but he isn't. He is holed up at the Flowers of Gold! If YOU think there is an explanation YOU talk to him. I have a report to draft to the council!"

I took that as an invitation to leave and scurried for the door.

At the Flowers of Gold I found Rothis Nethan alone at a corner table. The black looks he was getting from the other patrons accounted easily for his being alone, the similar look from the lass behind the counter accounted for the bare table in front of him. I pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat.

"Sitting with me is liable to get you killed outlander," he said stiffly.

I shrugged. "That's why I sat with my back to this wall," I said. He grunted, a non-committal noise. Clearly he did not want company. "What happened?" I asked.

"Listen, four people have already told me that Brethas Deras rescheduled our duel for tonight. I don't need another messenger."

"I'm not a messenger. Actually, that's news to me. I assume you plan to be there."

His hand leapt to the dagger at his belt. "Have a care outlander..." he began, but his words trailed off. "I suppose after last night I have no right to defend my honor," he finished, and his hand fell away from the silver hilt.

"A man can always defend his honor, but I meant no offense. I'm just trying to understand what happened, and what is happening."

"What happened I don't understand myself," he said. "I was resting in my room, reading, trying to keep my nerves loose as the hour closed. I could not imagine falling asleep, but somehow I must have. The innkeeper says they knocked at my door. When I didn't answer they assumed I had left for the arena. I could not have slept so soundly! But apparently I did." I didn't know what to make of this tale, and I suppose he read my silence as disbelief. "No one else believes me either. I can't even buy healing potions to use tonight."

"Healing potions?" I asked.

"Yes, that was our agreement. Healing potions only, no other spellcraft. No armor. Daggers. I will gut the wretched Hluulu, but it is likely too late to restore my reputation. And, as I said, the Temple here in the compound won't even sell me potions."

"I'll take care of that," I offered.

He was obviously grateful. I avoided any questions that may have arisen at the temple by getting the potions at the guild hall. I watched him throughout the afternoon to make sure nothing prevented him from defending the honor of our house a second time. I only wish I had seen the tendrils of the plot that were drawing him to his death.

Once he was secured in the antechamber below the arena to await the appointed hour I returned to the treasury, armed with solid assurances that the duel would take place as scheduled...as rescheduled, anyway. Faral was considerably calmer, and agreed to my company at the festivities.

We took our seats far above the arena floor. As a highly ranked official of the house Faral holds a reserved box, and the view was excellent. Trebonius, my predecessor as Archmage, had demanded such a box for himself, alienating most Dunmer, who considered such a privilege being given to an Imperial guild a direct affront to their traditions. I had released the claim shortly after leaving Trebonius dead in this very arena.

The sands of the arena were roughened by the hands and feet of tumbling acrobats; entertainment while the onlookers streamed to their seats, then smoothed again by men with large rakes and brooms as the announcer strode to the center of the ring. From his sleeve he drew the agreements of the duel, and began to read.

He had not gotten far when a voice shouted from the stands. "The odds makers said this was a no armor duel...with daggers!" I was trying to make sense of what the announcer had just said myself, and was glad for the interruption.

The announcer clearly wasn't. "That was LAST night," he bellowed, glaring in the direction of the offending voice. "After the failure of one of the contestants to appear new terms were agreed upon." He read on and my confusion grew. I should have thought. If Rothis had failed to appear, who had agreed to new conditions? I had no time to ponder.

The doors opened at opposite ends of the arena. From the door to our left Rothis leapt onto the sand. He was nimble, landing in a crouch with his two silver daggers raised at the ready. He wore a tight shirt tucked deeply into his trousers to allow him freedom of movement. There was a momentary pause as the crowd gaped, then there was a gasp as the Hluulu noble Brethas Deras strode from the door to our right. He was clad in full bonemold battle armor, a great two handed sword whirling above his helmeted head! Even from the height of our seats I could see the venomous glow of the blade. All allowed under the terms of the 'rematch', and no one had told Rothis!

Rothis neither ran nor flinched, much to the honor of our house. It was no duel, it was a slaughter.

_**Day 15: The enemy strikes**_

This morning at the Flowers of Gold the only topic of conversation was last night's debacle at the arena. Rothis died honorably, which doesn't change that he is dead. The Hlaalu, Brethas Deras, was completely within the agreements of the duel, and no one can say that his victory wasn't honorable. To those who saw it, particularly my fellow Redorans, it seems tainted, but that really doesn't make a difference. As I said, Rothis is dead. One less to stand against Dagoth Ur.

I don't think the Hlaalu are intentionally in league with Dagoth Ur, I just think the interminable house wars play directly into his plans. I was considering this over a breakfast of kwama eggs and guar bacon when a messenger burst into the dining room and rushed to my table. He did not have the air of good news about him. The loss of a minor house noble in Vivec is not a good thing, but it didn't rock House Redoran to its foundations. The rivalry with the Hlaalu is inconvenient, but it has gone on for a long time and is not likely to be our downfall. Death reaching into the very home of a member of our house council must be the work of Dagoth Ur. I left immediately for Ald-ruhn.

Chaos met me when I stepped off the guild guide platform. Potions of protection, cures of disease, enchantments of all kinds; keeping the flood of customers orderly was an unfamiliar task in Edwinna's guild hall. Even though most residents of Ald-ruhn are not actually members of House Redoran they are generally devout, and favor the temple for their purchases. As the Archmage I had to be pleased that business was booming, but the dire cause weighed against me. The creaking of the roof told me that I could look forward to a raging ash storm when I stepped outside, adding to the general malaise.

The townspeople are doubting the Redoran's ability to protect them, and with good reason. If the manor house of a councilor can be overrun by corprus monsters, right here in the capital, where is security? If councilor Brara Morvayn's own husband can be killed and consumed, who is safe? I found the council in emergency session, and was not allowed to enter. I went to Sarethi manor and waited for my patron to return.

"It is a dark day for our house Arvil Bren," he said by way of greeting.

"How is Lady Morvayn?" I asked.

"Well. As well as could be expected. She and a few retainers have established a temporary residence in her offices at the council hall. She was out of town. Her husband was less fortunate."

"So he is dead?"

"Dead. Or worse. Their house is overrun. Some of their personal guards escaped the carnage. They have the corprus disease. Bolvyn Venim believes that we cannot order guards into the house. In the face of the corprus they may refuse and we will have a general revolt. I offered to lead them myself, but he has forbidden it. He says we cannot have the council exposed to corprus."

"He's right. He also knows that if you were successful while he cowers in his manor his grip on the council would be broken." I had not the least doubt that that was part of Sarethi's motivation when he volunteered.

"He isn't cowering. What is there to do? I have no more idea than he has."

I had an idea, but I wasn't ready to say so. "Lord Sarethi, I met the Lady of Maar Gan not long ago. If I went to her offices now would she see me?"

His red eyes, which have seen a great deal over his centuries, narrowed. "She is distraught, but perhaps. Almost certainly if I accompany you." He was ahead of me already. How I will ever be able to sail the undercurrents of a Dunmer council I cannot guess. Centuries of experience; they have centuries of experience.

We were quickly allowed entry, and settled comfortably. It took a while for the Lady to join us, understandably. She was composed, but beneath the thin surface clearly distraught. I was shocked by her first words.

"I should have taken you more seriously," she said as soon as she saw me.

"My Lady?" I was completely thrown off balance.

"Red candles. You told me about red candles. The sixth house cult and red candles. One of my servants favored red candles, but I didn't pursue it with her. Now my husband is dead."

"Where is the servant?" Sarethi asked.

"Dead also, I assume. The guards say she didn't make it out of the house when those monsters appeared."

"Did they describe these monsters?" I asked. The description was clear enough. Not monsters. People, people far gone with corprus disease.

"I have battled them before," I said. "In the corprusarium at Tel Fyr they can be treated."

"Treated? There is no cure for corprus," Sarethi said.

"Divayth Fyr has a cure." They both looked at me, disbelief clear on their faces. "It has only worked once," I said. "It worked on me."

"The legend of the Nerevarine," Sarethi said. "Despite all you have done for me, and the house, you are on dangerous ground Arvil Bren."

"The Nerevarine?" Lady Morvayn said, puzzled. "What brings that up?"

"In the Ashlander legends the Nerevarine overcomes the corprus disease Brara," Sarethi said. "Claiming to have been cured is a heresy."

"Claiming to be the Nerevarine is heresy. I survived Fyr's cure is just a surprising fact. A fact that is overwhelmingly important right now." I faced Sarethi. "Venim says you can't enter Morvayn Manor, and he might be right, you might catch the corprus if you did. I won't catch it." I turned. "Lady Morvayn, it would be my honor to reclaim your home."

I was pleased that the conversation had taken what I thought to be a turn beyond Sarethi's expectations, but I could see that he was already cycling through the consequences and complications. "This is Ald-ruhn. Bolvyn Venim is the local authority..." he said.

"You know he will refuse," I said.

"We are talking about MY home," said Lady Morvayn as she pressed a key into my hand. A feral grin flashed across Sarethi's face. I would risk my life, Venim would lose face, and Lady Morvayn would bear his displeasure. Sarethi was the master and I was the pawn. Again.

_**Day 16: Morvayn manor**_

Lady Morvayn will not be returning to Morvayn manor any time soon. It would be safe enough, but I suspect there are too many bad memories, and they are too fresh.

I ate breakfast with Sarethi this morning. Every conversation with the wily council elder leaves me wondering if he is advancing my cause or I am advancing his. I suppose our paths are basically parallel. The harder times get for House Redoran the easier it gets to swing council members to our respective causes. In any case Bolvyn Venim is our common obstacle. I'm sure Sarethi is maneuvering him into challenging me to a duel.

It was left to me to talk my way past the guards at the manor. It wasn't difficult. Having a home in Ald-ruhn taken over by fell creatures certainly affronts their sense of honor. Their main concern, of course, was the corprus disease. Having heroes and adventurers assault the house only to add to the number of infected monsters within is certainly no solution. I couldn't very well tell the devout guards about the real source of my immunity, so I left them with the impression that the mage's guild has solved the corprus problem...at least as far as master wizards and archmages go.

The ground level of the opulent manor gave little evidence of the corruption lying below, but I could sense it. The corprus is more a curse than a disease; a construct of magica and malevolence. I could feel swirling eddies in the everpresent flows of magica. I stepped back outside and suggested to the guards that they should establish themselves a little further from the building.

I entered again, and crept to the door that led down into the main portion of the manor. The stairs descended into a sitting room or library. I slipped through the maze of overturned chairs being careful not to make too much noise rustling through the litter of torn pages. The living areas of the manor were basically abandoned, Dagoth Ur's creatures had established themselves in the darkened storage areas, which were now bathed in the sullen glow from dozens of red candles.

The corprus victims were busily engaged in mindless activity, but there was obviously some guiding intelligence at work. The intricate designs of House Dagoth adorned walls and floors, drawn in dried blood. Tapestries had been hung, and hunks of corprus meat lay on crude altars. I felt among the threads and tendrils of magica being woven around these icons and found a warped familiarity.

The guild guides do not actually cast teleportation spells, they maintain a system that amounts to tunnels of magica connecting the various halls. The sense in Morvayn manor was similar, though incomplete. I have no doubt that if I had not intervened there would soon have been a portal constructed, and probably one of the dagoths would have been established right in Ald-ruhn. In my own sorrowful experience the dagoths have the power to call down the corprus on their enemies with immediate effect. The signs and artifacts that were already in place were a danger, but the presense of a dagoth would have been a disaster.

I was not fooled by the slow hulking of the corprus stalkers. Their numbers and the regenerative capabilities that stem from their infection made a physical assault precarious at best. I considered my arsenal of spells, but opted for a well designed scroll. The scroll is often thought to be a crutch, an access for those with little command of magica to spells that would otherwise be beyond them. There is more truth in this than not, but that is far from their only purpose. My confrontation with the stalkers gives a perfect illumination.

There are spells that are designed to lower the resistance to various destructive energies. Personally, the main use I have for this branch of the school of destruction is lighting campfires. A spell of vulnerability to fire works wonders with firewood, even green or wet wood. There are those who use these spells in combat, but I have found that I seldom have the time. Scrolls can combine multiple effects in a single casting, a casting made very quick since much of the magica is already focused by the arcane symbols of the scroll.

I stood in a shadowy alcove under the stairs and readied a hellfire scroll. The combined effects worked to perfection, and struck in a sequence far faster than I could have cast the spells individually. A field blossomed around the huddled monsters. The channels of magica amplified the effects of the subsequent spells. The next wave of magica thus struck with much greater power, desiccating everything in the area to tinder dryness. Even the oozing sores of the corprus monsters dried and cracked in an instant. The scroll left no chance to appreciate the preliminary effects though, as the room erupted in a volcanic blast of searing magical flame. The scroll, bereft of the long pent magical power it had released, crumbled to dust in my hands. Just to be sure of an effective cleansing I launched a couple additional balls of flame into the room.

The corprus, and the eventual passage of a dagoth, were products of the arcane symbols, the altars, and the candles, which had been safely eliminated, but I was left with a mystery. What had led a loyal servant, who had been with the Morvayn's for centuries, to begin gathering these icons of evil? Why would anyone call down the curse of corprus on themselves and those around them? The answer stood on a stack of crates in another room.

The glittering gem eyes seemed to follow me as I entered the chamber. Made from the ash of Red Mountain, sealed with the red wax of Dagoth candles, the ash statue oozed with strange power. It was frighteningly similar to the statue that had apparently possessed Varvur Sarethi to kill one of his best friends. These statues are a danger, setting the stage for invasion or worse. I must find out how they are being introduced into the homes of the finest families of the Redoran house.

_**Day 17: Dunmer magic**_

This morning I took the statue to Lloros Sarano at the temple. "Another one?" he said when he unwrapped it.

"Yes. Different. Different effects anyway."

He studied it closely. "Physically they are very similar, but not exact. I would say made by the same craftsman." He set the statue carefully on a small pedestal and slowly passed his hands up and down along its sides.

"I could sense the enchantment, but no details."

"Could you now, master wizard?" he said with a smile.

Sarethi laughed from the doorway. "I didn't want to interrupt your examination Lloros."

The priest laughed also; a friendly laugh. "I had not actually begun, Athyn. I'll get started shortly." He glanced back and forth between us. The message was clear. Sarethi and I made a graceful exit.

"Lloros is a scholar," Sarethi said as we made our way to the great emperor crab shell known as Skar that shelters the manor district of Ald-ruhn. "His sense of magica is different from yours."

"How?"

"You, human mages in general, you direct what you think of as streams of magica, streams that can alter, destroy, conceal. Most Dunmer do not pursue control of such streams. Have you noticed that the Telvanni do things differently than your own mages?"

"The Telvanni...blend is the best word I suppose...spells from what we consider different schools. In ways that seem, in most ways, grossly inefficient, at least coming at them from our traditions."

"That is because they do not come at them from your traditions. The Telvanni are Dunmer. Their traditions are the same as the Temple; the same as my friend Lloros. He is studying the magica in the statue. You know it is there, but you can't identify it. It isn't a stream. It is threads, carefully woven threads. Threads put together into a net that ensnares the minds of those around it."

"So he will be able to sort out why the statue Varvur had led him to kill, while this statue led the Morvayn servant to construct a shrine."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps the difference was not in the snare but in the snared."

I went back to the guild hall and teleported to Balmora. Sarethi's examples and explanations were a layman's view of the differences between experts, but they had given me a glint of insight...or at least opened a question in my mind. I spent much of the day closeted in Ranis' office. A Dunmer, risen to high rank in the guild, she could explain in depth and detail that made sense to me...eventually. If I have to duel a Telvanni at some point I will be much better prepared.

Late in the afternoon a tap came at the door. Ajira opened the door far enough to slip her head through. "Ranis. Good friend Arvil Bren. There is a message from Ald-ruhn."

The council has been in session most of the day, and is holding an extended meeting tonight. Acrimoniously, no doubt. Sarethi wants me to meet him at his manor tomorrow. Apparently Lloros has made some headway with the statues and their spells. His message suggested that I avoid being seen.

_**Day 18: Ald-ruhn after dark**_

I spent most of the day observing Lloros Sarano as he worked with Varvur Sarethi. I didn't interrupt him, but he took frequent breaks to let Varvur's mind settle so I did have a chance to ask some questions. Apparently, while the statues snared the minds of their owners the owners left their own imprints on the enchantments of the statues. By comparing the two the priest had isolated the threads of magica that had impacted Varvur's mind, and his delicate administration of restorative magica was designed to bring back Varvur's memory.

I was impressed. Sharn gra-Muzgob is the guild's most skilled student of the school of restoration. She can direct a powerful stream of magica in a virtual explosion of healing. She could reattach a severed head before it hit the ground, but undoing the tiny scars in Varvur's mind is an entirely different world.

Between council sessions Athyn Sarethi would return to the manor to check on the progress, and also to keep me up to date on whatever he thought I needed to know. I am fully aware that what he thinks I need to know is whatever keeps me on a path that works for him, but again, our intentions are at least parallel if not the same. My own experience tells me that when he says Venim is furious about events at Morvayn manor that he is telling the exact truth. There's no question that slipping invisibly into Skar as he recommended was a wise choice. When he had completed his work I left even more surreptitiously.

I waited until late in the evening. The swirling ashstorm engulfed the purple glow of magica as I teleported myself to the temple courtyard, and I quickly lost myself in the darkness. With the storm raging it was not difficult to avoid the patrolling guards in the streets, but I needed to get inside unidentified. A quick trip to Balmora was called for.

At the Southwall Cornerclub I am always welcome. I think Habasi still holds out hope that I will actually join the thieve's guild. I quickly explained my needs, without going into too much detail about my objectives. The Rat in the Pot is the headquarters of the guild in Ald-ruhn, and even my friends would be hard pressed to help me if they knew that was the target of my infiltration.

Armed with only a common dagger I had no intention of getting in a fight. I suppose I should have expected otherwise, given the reputation of the Rat in the Pot. The club where, according to Varvur's cleared memories, he had won the ash statue in a dice game; a club that is generally avoided by the good citizens of Ald-ruhn.

The bartender didn't recognize me as I unwrapped the turban that had protected me from the blowing ash, as well as completely obscuring me from any guards I passed in the street. The art of disguise is meeting the expected. My rough dark clothes and soft boots, the turban, the well-used hilt of a dagger peeking from the ragged sash around my waist; the combination spoke of a road-weary thief struggling to stay above begging; no surprise at the Rat. The location and costume establish a mental trend, a trend that would prevent any recognition of my face.

After a couple of drinks, purchased with much grumbling about prices and recounting of well worn coins, I managed to find my way into the dingy room below the bar. The players in the dice game opened a narrow space, making room grudgingly for what looked to be a rather ragged new mark. I did not disappoint, playing rather badly and losing, but bemoaning my small losses as if they were my last coins.

In fairly short order I had 'successfully' lost the contents of my small coin pouch, and was reduced to pleading with the other players to be allowed to bet more bulky goods. Reluctantly I produced a dagger crafted from the chitinous hide of an ashland beetle. "I have a few Ashlander artifacts in my bag," I said, holding my voice low. A Dunmer who was not actually in the game looked on with sudden interest, and the other players introduced Galtis Guvron, suggesting that he might buy something from me to restore my stake in the game.

I settled at a corner table with my newfound fence. Though trafficking in Ashlander artifacts isn't illegal it is certainly frowned upon outside the lower circles, and I doubted that there would be more than one person involved in such business even in this dive. I argued and bargained over the worth of the dagger and a few other bits and pieces, then let slip the reason I had come to Ald-ruhn. "I've heard that there are some new items coming out of the Ashlands. My usual buyer would pay handsomely for such a novelty."

Galtis kept his face blank, but there had been a brief flicker of something, I was sure of it. "I've seen nothing new," he said. "The Ashlander life hasn't changed for millennia. They are not innovators." He waved at his sack, which now contained the handful of chitin tools and such that I had brought. "These are relatively new, but they could just as easily have been made by the ancestors a hundred generations ago."

"Apparently it is some new religion. Some sort of idol worship. I've heard they have some kind of statues made of ash, with glowing red..." Before I could finish I was hit hard in the chest by the table's rough edge. Galtis had leapt to his feet and a dagger was flashing in his hand.

"Who?" he shrieked. "Where did you hear this, and why come here?" The dagger slashed towards my face and I rolled out of my chair. I came to my feet with my own dagger in hand. The other patrons closed in a circle around us to watch. His reaction to the mere mention of the statues was a sufficient indication of guilt, and I wouldn't feel bad if I had to kill Galtis, but I wanted more information. I wasn't going to get it. Asking a lot of questions would have brought even more questions from the onlookers. Besides, Galtis clearly had every intention of killing me out of hand, so it was better to save my breath.

An explosive outburst of magica would have been completely out of place and out of character, but it seems like there is someone hawking potions of dubious value on every streetcorner, so a swig from a battered vial didn't raise any eyebrows. No one needed to know that the contents had been brewed by one of the finest alchemists in Vvardenfell to provide a substantial boost to my quickness and reflexes. That ended any possibility of getting information though. I had to strike immediately and with deadly intent. One of the biggest differences between a quality potion and the streetcorner swill is the duration of the effects. I couldn't stretch out that battle riding the benefits of the potion. My ragged persona would expect only a brief burst of speed and would feel pressed to take advantage, so I did.

I stood over Galtis' fallen body with my dagger point low, but ready. The circle of spectators stood warily, but did not approach. "To the victor go the spoils," I snarled. I snagged whatever obvious pouches were attached to his belt, then checked inside his jacket, where I found a folded bit of parchment.

Being an unknown I could assume that my welcome was overextended when I killed one of the regulars. The Rat is no stranger to knife fights I suppose, and had their own manner of disposal for the remains. I quickly left them to it.

The parchment is coded, I think. Either that or it's just scrawling. I left it for Lloros. Hopefully the scholar will be able to make something of it. For my part I will be getting out of town. A chance to get in favor with another member of the council has arisen. Since I have dropped yet another notch with Bolvyn Venim that is obviously important.

_**Day 19: Under construction**_

I set out this morning from Ald-ruhn. Lord Hlaren Ramoran, another member of the council, has dispatched me to Gnisis to collect taxes. For some reason the regular packet has not arrived, and with Ald-ruhn and the council in chaos he cannot go himself. I'm concerned that there may be more to this delay than just disruption in delivery. With all the Redoran's attention turned to Red Mountain the outlying areas may be thinking they can assert themselves for some reason. I hope that I can convince the hetman that things are normal, and he and the collection of taxes need to be also.

Before I get to Lord Ramoran's territory though, I am inspecting my own. Strange to write those words. Not long ago I was a pauper, and a prisoner; now I am a titled landholder. A manor house. Remarkable.

Actually, it is just the shell of a manor house so far, but I am certainly appreciating the shelter it provides tonight as the ashstorm rages outside. Bugdul gro-Kharbush, the foreman, assures me that it will be completed as scheduled even though they are a bit behind right now. The early stages of the construction went a bit slowly. Even the great strength of the orcs on gro-Karbush's crew could not progress quickly against the blowing ash that seems to get more and more frequent. Now that they are mostly working inside he is driving them hard.

Because of the storm I did not have much opportunity to assess my domain. Not much assessment required, really. The sand, the tangles of trama vine, the spires of ancient rock carved into eerie shapes by the ceaseless wind; it is the ashlands. My time with the Urshilaku has brought me into a communion with this vast wilderness, and I will be an honorable steward of this region.

That stewardship is yet to be approved by Bolvyn Venim. Though his specific approval is not required, as the head of the council he is the one who actually signs the title orders. According to Sarethi this will be the first time he will be signing an order by direction of the council that he himself did not initiate, or at least strongly support. He could refuse. By house law the council will then have to face the question of whether to install a new head of the council or reverse their decision on the issue.

Sarethi would opt for stripping Venim of his position, no question, but the others who support me would probably not go that far. They wouldn't yet. Lady Morvayn perhaps. I still have much to do, and this is only the first step. Hlaalu, Telvanni, the four tribes; building the storm against Red Mountain is a long trial. I must endure, like the rocky spires of my newfound lands.

Waxing philosophical must be cut short. The construction crew is setting aside their tools. It is always a shock to see the reverence Orcs have for their tools, be they armor and warhammer or saw and chisel. But once the tools are carefully set for the night, in the way of Orcs the sujamma will flow, and there will be no more to write...or no sense to write it at least.

_**Day 20: Day lost to the storm**_

The ashstorm raged all day. At least I know my manor will be able to withstand the worst. This storm may not have been the worst, but I hope my head never suffers so badly again. How can Orcs drink so much sujamma, then be up before dawn pounding with hammers? Bugdul gro-Kharbush seemed sympathetic, but that didn't keep him from driving his crew at full speed.

Ashstorms. They seem to be getting progressively worse. A substantial part of the Redoran territory, including my own lands, is on the verge of becoming uninhabitable. When the temple allotted districts of Vvardenfell back to the Dunmer great houses it is clear that the Redorans got the tailmeat of the guar. I suppose that at the time, with the ghostfence promising to hold back the blight, it didn't seem so bad, but the current circumstances show it in a poor light.

Bolvyn Venim, in his youth, led the house to Vvardenfell. The conflict over that decision ended with Venim as the leader of the council and the former leader dead in the arena. On one hand I'm hoping the Hortator question does not require bloodshed to get an answer. On the other, there must be a growing undercurrent against Venim's leadership now that the weakening ghostfence has placed the house directly in the path of Dagoth Ur's wrath.

Bugdul gro-Kharbush gave me a view from another, unexpected, side of the situation. The powerful Orc has been assembling his crew over the last few years, but has been doing construction work for the Redorans since shortly after his arrival in Morrowind, an opportunity that he would likely not have had without the renewed threat from Red Mountain. In the more hospitable lands of the Hlaalu construction relies on the labor of slaves, and of course the Telvanni build by using their magic to warp living plants to fill their needs. In better times the Redorans also used slaves, but the Khajit, even though they long for the warm sands of their homeland, are ill suited to the harsh ashlands, and the amphibious Argonians even less so.

The hardy Orcs, as evidenced, can actually build shelter against the blowing ash in the midst of the storm. Their nature makes them useless as slaves though, obstinate in the face of even the harshest abuse, and equally impervious to kindness and any other gentle motivation. Bugdul filled a growing need as conditions deteriorated, and without him construction of my stronghold would be impossible. He has given me a new respect for Orcs that might give me a different experience tomorrow in Gnises; hopefully tomorrow. Most of the legion there are Orcs, a situation that I now understand a little better.

I must continue on my mission. If the unrest in the house cannot be relieved, it must at least be directed. Bolvyn Venim led us here; it can be laid at his feet if need be.

_**Day 21: A mistake with good results**_

Once the storm cleared it was an easy jog over the mountains into the West Gash. Lord Ramoran's territory is certainly more inviting than mine. Trees and grasses replaced the sand and thornbushes of the Ashlands. I would not trade for the political challenges though. I thought to get some insight into those challenges before approaching the Hetman, Abelmawia, by visiting Baladas Demnevanni. I should have known better.

When I asked Baladas if he had heard anything about a tax revolt he immediately said no, but there was a slight catch in his voice and a grin that led me to press him. "Well, I don't know anything about your Redoran taxes, since I don't pay them," he said.

"You don't?"

"No. Since this tower is technically a Velothi artifact my taxes go directly to the Emperor," he said and paused, then finished "when I pay them." After a little coaxing the curmudgeonly wizard admitted that most times when the legion sent someone to collect from him he locked them in the dungeon. General Darius apparently has tax revolt problems of his own. The swirling currents of Vvardenfell politics crash together in a veritible malestrom in Gnisis.

"Well, I'm no great fan of the Imperial Legion," I said with a smile, "nor the Empire in general for that matter."

"Ah, but Arvil you are the Archmage of the imperial guild. How could you say such a thing about your noble leader, whom we are all honored to serve?"

"Sarcasm Baladas?" I said with a chuckle. "Such a well known spokesman for Great House Telvanni should probably be more careful, you could be misunderstood. Fortunately I know that the Telvanni are fully supportive of the Emperor in all that he does."

"Arvil, you need a few more centuries of practice before you try to challenge me at wordplay. Perhaps if I had met some of your Breton ancestors in my youth...or were they still living in caves then? Unfortunate that your brief mortal span gives you no chance of actually developing your wit, you show glimmers of promise."

We laughed together as friends do, which would no doubt be a surprise to so many in our various orders. Telvanni and Redoran, Dunmer wizard and Imperial Archmage; we cross many boundaries. In the moment I took a chance on testing our friendship with one more boundary, that between Great House glory and Ashlander tradition.

"I may have more time than you would expect, Baladas," I said, bringing my tone into a more serious note.

He caught the change and looked at me, intensity narrowing his gleaming red eyes. "What?"

"I'm looking ahead to a long life Baladas, a very long life."

"How long do you have in mind?"

"Well, if I can avoid some violent demise something like forever," I said quietly.

"Forever?"

"It's Azura's gift," I said, drawing my hand from my pouch, where I had slipped on the ring.

"Moon and Star," he gasped.

We talked far into the night. He agrees that I took the wise course by going first to the Redorans, though he wishes there had been some way that I could have chosen House Telvanni. Once I have been named Hortator by House Redoran he will support my petition to House Telvanni. Of course once again I am confronted by the question of who is really helping who. Telvanni councillors do not share a city like the Redorans, because most of them are locked in ancient blood feuds with each other. Having Baladas' support doesn't mean I won't have to kill most of his rivals to get his house behind me.

_**Day 22: Renewed acquaintance**_

This morning I set out to get a feel for Gnisis. Before I approach the Hetman I thought I'd talk to the people a bit and see what public opinion might be. If there is a widespread desire for revolt there may not be much that Abelmawia will be able to do about the taxes.

I started out browsing the merchant stalls near the temple. On my previous adventures in Gnisis I was on errands for the guild; merely a journeyman if I recall. I did not present a very memorable picture then I suppose. In any event I was not recognized. When I identified myself as a Redoran housecousin I was given due respect, though clearly there was some surprise, and even doubt, that such a rank would be given to an outlander.

That doubt boiled over as I conversed with the woman running a stall filled with what could be called 'general merchandise'. When I approached she was talking to a man...elf I should say; a Dunmer. I took him to be a customer, and signaled that she could complete her business with him as I was in no hurry, but their conversation stopped. There was something awkward in the sudden silence; a furtive undercurrent that reminded me of other days and other places. He wasn't a customer. He was a supplier. A supplier either of regular goods delivered tax free, or possibly goods that were not on open display due to their illegality; a smuggler.

As our eyes met there was the unspoken challenge that hangs over such men. Something in my face or posture tripped his alarms, and he knew that I knew. But at the same time there was something else; a familiarity that we both also recognized.

"The Redorans have...taken...a new view on outlanders," he said. He might has well have said that they had sunken very low with their new view, it was clearly written on his face.

"Some outlanders," I replied, letting the slur fall as if it was just another word to let him know I would not rise to that bait. "The only Dunmer who completely close their minds are the Cammona Tong, but they are just back alley cut-throats, not house councillors." I expected that to raise a response, since the Tong justify themselves as standing for the Dunmer ideal of self rule, and are usually quick to point to their close ties with the leadership of House Hlaalu. He let it pass without a twitch of an eyebrow. Either he was not Cammona Tong, or he had a strong desire to hide it and a good degree of self control.

"It doesn't take a criminal syndicate to get on the wrong side of the empire around here," he sneered. "Just surviving seems to be enough."

"The mine..." I said, groping in my memory. "Is the mine still closed?"

"Most times. The legion lets most people work just enough to keep us from starving but not enough for anyone to avoid being hungry. They say the lower levels, the really productive levels, are too dangerous; protecting their precious Dwemer ruin..."

"Quiet Hainab," the merchant hissed. "You may think you can outrun the Orcs, but I have a shop to keep." In my memory pieces were clicking into place.

"Hainab. Hainab the miner."

"Former miner," he said with a sneer. "I said they let most people work. Not me. They blamed me for the death of one of their precious Orcs, even though they had no proof, so there's no work for me."

"So you became a smuggler. A real smuggler; more than just sneaking into the mine." Smuggling had treated him well in some ways. Like myself he was much better dressed. In other ways it had not been kind. There was a hard edge to him that had not been there, and the shadowed, haunted look of a basically honest man pushed into less than honorable work. "There are ways to be responsible for a death even if your hand doesn't hold the blade, but I'm sorry you were blamed. That Orc was not worth the ruining of your life."

"What do you know about it outlander," he said heatedly, then a puzzled look came over his face. "The Breton..." He looked more carefully at my face. "It _is_ you, Breton," he finished.

"Well! Breton certainly sounds better than outlander. How about if I buy you a drink and we talk about what has befallen us since last we met?"

"You'll have to buy it here," he said. " I don't frequent the tradehouse."

"The trail south of town?" I asked. He nodded quickly and was on his way.

This time I was much more wary, and he did not take me by surprise. Perhaps he has gotten past needing the pretense of an ambush. "Ridiculous that they could blame me," he said as he stepped from the bushes. "There was no way I could have stood up to that Orc demon...then."

"Hard lessons since then?"

"Many," he said. "And many scars."

"And the burden of many corpses," I suggested. The man had grown up, spent centuries, in a mining village, living the simple life of a miner. The scars on his conscience marked him clearly; more clearly than whatever scars his shirt might conceal.

"You seem unburdened," he grated.

"You said it yourself. That Orc was a demon. A thief stealing from all sides; the legion, the empire, the miners...probably whoever he sold the artifacts to. I have regrets about some that I've killed, but not him."

"I shed no tears for him either, but I regret that the end of his life and the ruin of my own did no good."

"The miners ended up with nothing," I said, "even the ones who do get to work."

"Right. The artifacts were gone, but most of the mine is still closed off. The general was furious that a soldier was killed, and never really got to the bottom of what had happened, so he doesn't see things in the same way you and I do. He sees the closure of the mine as fair punishment."

"How did you get blamed? And how are you still here?"

"I was conspicuously in the town while you were in the mine, and there was no way to convict me of the crime, so I'm a 'free man'...but the Orcs blame me. I had to learn to move fast...and kill. Then the Cammona Tong decided I was competition, and I had to learn to move faster...and kill more."

"War is at hand," I said. "Moving fast will serve you well, and it's better to kill than be killed, especially by the likes of the Cammona Tong, or the minions of House Dagoth."

"House wars," he sneered. "They make no difference. Redoran, Hlaalu, either one will turn their people over to the empire as long as they get to keep their manors. You think House Dagoth would do any worse?"

"I know they would," I said. "I've seen it myself."

We stood beside the trail. Neither of us had asked for the violence that fills our lives. I have come to terms with it. There are killers far worse than me, and true evil in the world. Hainab's life had changed the first time he crossed my path. I hoped it would again, this time for the better.

"You would do better if you got away from here," I said.

"How? I know the coast. I know the people; who I can trust. I wasn't raised to be a smuggler...or a killer..."

"I know." I pressed a bag of coins into his hands. "Your people will need the skills you've learned. All of your people. Catch the caravan to Ald-ruhn. No one will know you there. There's an Ashlander turned merchant, retired. You'll find him at the Ald Skar. He can tell you how to survive with the Ashlanders, and where to find the Urshilaku. Speak to Zabamund. Tell him you are friend to clanfriend Arvil Bren."

I don't know if he will go. I don't know if he will survive the journey, or the coming war. I only hope that he will find there was a good reason that he had to learn to fight.

_**Day 23: Arrangements**_

As expected, there was really not much the Hetman could do about the taxes. It's not really like a revolt. The townspeople of Gnisis just have no money with the eggmine shut down. Abelmawia may have wanted the taxes paid, but he wasn't terribly concerned. It took some digging to sort out why not.

"Where was Lord Ramoran when the legion shut down our mine?" he finally burst out. "If this village gets protection we get it from the legion, not Great House Redoran." I suppose I was shocked, and it showed. "Pardon, Lord Bren. I have been loyal to the Redoran banner for centuries, but the people here ask me these questions and Lord Ramoran hasn't been giving me any answers for them."

"Here's an answer for them. A question you can ask in return. Who is going to protect them if the legion goes back to Cyrodiil?"

"The house Lords can barely protect themselves! Ald-ruhn is being overrun by monsters from Red Mountain and the Redoran forces are at Ghostgate, and Molag Mar, and who knows where else, but they...are...not...here!"

"Those places; those are the key points that contain the biggest danger we face. The legion can come and go; the legion can call it a success if House Dagoth is contained to Vvardenfell. It's your home and mine that are lost, not theirs, not the Emperor's. This village, far from Red Mountain; the battle against Dagoth Ur won't be fought here. But if Ghostgate falls, or the exaggerations you hear about Ald-ruhn turn into the truth, then we are all lost. Your people think Lord Ramoran should have his eyes turned on you, but his eyes are on Red Mountain, as they should be."

"All well and good," he said, "but ultimately it doesn't matter. There's nothing to pay with. General Darius is not likely to be impressed by your arguments and open the mine."

There wasn't much more for me to talk to the Hetman about. I went to the local tradehouse, headquarters of General Darius of the Death's Head legion.

"Those people killed one of my men!" he bellowed as soon as I mentioned opening the mine.

"General, 'your man' was living down in the mine, shirking his duty, selling off..."

"He was guarding a valuable find! Historical artifacts! Who knows what may have been learned? These miners that you are so concerned about could have been working on the excavation for years, but they had to steal from the Emperor. I have nothing for them, or for you. You've gone native Breton, that's your problem."

"I don't know who did your investigation, or where you got your ideas, but I can tell you that none of the villagers had anything to do with killing that theiving Orc...and he wasn't guarding any interests but his own. He and his partners took out everything they thought was of value, there was nothing to guard but the secret."

"And how would you know?" he roared.

"I was there. I killed him."

Veins popped out on his forehead and his neck. For a moment I couldn't help but think of Trebonius. It must be a common trait with angry Cyrodiils. He got some semblence of control before he spoke. When he did his voice was icy. "What did you say?"

"I said I killed him. I killed the Orc in the eggmines. There were no artefacts left in the ruin. Your Orc had a crew from before he joined the legion. They cleaned it out."

"You just admitted to killing a trooper. Why should anything else you have to say matter?"

"Because it's the truth, for one thing. Your trooper was removing artefacts from a Dwemer ruin. A ruin that should have been turned over to the Mage's Guild as soon as it was found. The guild heard rumors and sent me here to investigate. When I tried to enter the ruin your trooper made the mistake of trying to stop me."

"So you killed him."

"It was him or me. And if I hadn't shown up when I did your Orcs could have lost us one of the most important finds in history. Fortunately they were so busy with Dwemer metal trinkets they missed the most valuable thing that they found."

"What?"

"A book. A book that revealed the truth of what happened to the Dwemer."

"You found this book?"

"I did. It's in the hands of the mage's guild, no thanks to your troopers."

"Doesn't change that you killed a trooper in my legion," he said.

"No, it doesn't. It also doesn't matter. I'm the Archmage of Vvardenfell. You can report to your superiors, they can complain to the guild council in Cyrodiil, they can look for someone to come here to replace me or promote someone here. They won't find anyone there who wants to come to Vvardenfell to die, and my stewards are more interested in containing the local threats than pleasing the council."

"So you think you can take matters into your own hands because we're out here on the frontier," he said.

"Don't you?" I shifted my eyes deliberately to his sword, then looked him directly in the eye. "You could extract justice for your fallen soldier right now."

I watched his eyes. I had no desire to fight a General in the legion, but it was really up to him. Apparently he felt the same way. After a minute that seemed to stretch endlessly he said "Well, if he was stealing the artefacts I suppose justice has already been served."

"Not for everyone. The miners have been suffering ever since, and by rights they should have gotten some benefit from the find."

"That's too bad. Everything was looted so there's nothing for them, unless you plan to give the book back."

"No, but there is something I can do, as long as you open the mine and let them get back to work."

At dinner Baladas laughed until I thought he would fall out of his chair. "It's probably just as well you fell in with the Redorans Arvil," he finally gasped. "Any Telvanni worth the name would have roasted the pompous fool and been done with it. Then the miners could fend for themselves. See how long they like that before they come crawling for protection to Ald-ruhn. But not you. You end up hiring the whole town."

Most of the town, I guess. I contracted with the mine for kwama eggs, scrib jelly and meat; enough to feed a substantial population in and around my stronghold. That gets the miners back to work. The legion will provide security for shipments into the Ashlands; a source of extra funding that makes keeping the mine open in the general's best interest. Overall a very satisfactory solution.

_**Day 24: Lord Ramoran**_

I took the caravan back to Ald-ruhn this morning. I needed the time to reflect. Collecting the meager taxes was not a difficult task in itself, but some of the questions asked in Gnisis rode my shoulders, taking the spring from my step. Red Mountain, and the defense of Ald-ruhn; with these important matters I had explained away the long absence of Ramoran from his domain. But I was beset by doubts about the Lord of the West Gash. When I arrived in Ald-ruhn I had resolved to set aside my concerns. Getting the support of Lord Ramoran, and the rest of the council, must take precedence.

I delivered the taxes to Ramoran manor, under Skar. The splendid mansion and Lord Ramoran's gleaming armor of Dwemer metal again gave me pause. What sort of Lord could live thus while turning a deaf ear to the trials of his people?

He took the bag of drakes without enthusiasm. "Thank you Arvil Bren. Did the Hetman say anything about the delay?"

"Yes he did. The mine has been shut down by the legion, and the people just didn't have the money."

"Oh. Well, I suppose they could have been forgiven their taxes for a year..." His voice trailed off strangely.

"Lord Ramoran," I began tentatively. There was something very strange about his reactions. I had thought that he was miserly, an autocrat squeezing his people, but he didn't seem all that interested in money either. "I cleared up the problem with the legion and got the mine reopened. The taxes were paid out of an advance I gave them to supply my stronghold at Bal Isra..."

"Very good. I'm glad it all worked out," he said distractedly.

"Lord Ramoran, your people are...concerned. They would no doubt welcome some reassurances from you..."

He sighed deeply. "The weight of leadership is not what I expected it to be Arvil Bren, though I never really wanted it. I have risen to power, and wealth, but it came too late to get me what I really wanted, so it is all hollow now. As you take command of Bal Isra keep your eye on what is truly important."

I thought of Ahnassi. I wasn't sure of exactly what he meant, but something in his voice and the set of his jaw made me think he had to be thinking about a woman. "Whoever you lost, now we must stand against Red Mountain or we will lose all."

He shook himself. "I know. Lately I have just been consumed. I must know what happened to her. In my youth I...could not meet her family's expectations. They are held in great esteem in Vivec, and even though I came from a noble family in the West Gash they thought me little better than an Ashlander. Now I am Lord of the West Gash, but they refuse to speak of her."

"What is her name?" I asked.

"Navilie Saren," he replied.

The way to gain Lord Ramoran's support is clearly obvious, and I hope it will also restore him to the leader that he was in his rise to power. In these times the House needs that from him. I depart for Vivec City in the morning.

_**Day 25: Old Redoran society**_

After writing in my journal last night I looked around my room at the guild hall in Ald-ruhn and heard the sad voice of Lord Ramoran echoing in my ears. I could not rest, and opted to use my recall spell and come home. Waking up this morning in my own bed with Ahnassi curled against my side purring softly reminded me just how much is at stake.

The walk through the Ascadian Isles to Vivec also refreshed me. The glorious trees towering against the sky, the crystaline water of the innumerable lakes; it is so different from the Ashlands, or even the more hospitable West Gash. How the Hlaalu managed to get possession of it in the districting no one will ever know, though it no doubt involved some shady dealings.

When I arrived in Vivec City I went directly to my office and sorted quickly through the latest mountain of reports and requests. Most of the reports come from my guild stewards and provide me with information, some of immediate value, some that I will likely need at some point. Their few requests are almost always well reasoned. The rest of the paperwork, mostly requests, comes from the council headquarters in Cyrodiil. Usually these are of no value whatsoever, and are couched in the most condescending and demanding terms. I am tempted to make a stamp that says 'can't do this due to the Emperor's embargo, perhaps you've heard of it' and have an apprentice stamp and return everything that comes from the mainland.

My tasks complete and my desk cleared I was ready to start the search for Navilie Saren. I called for Malven. As the guild steward it is part of her job to keep up on the significant families and individuals of the city. She met my expectations.

The Sarens are an old and powerful family, with long standing ties to Great House Redoran. In fact, a Saren elder served as the Redoran ambassador to the temple here in Vivec before Vvardenfell was reopened. My first thoughts upon hearing that were that he didn't do the best job of it, since House Redoran ended up with a tract of mostly Ashlands. That wasn't the most relevant part of the story though. The Saren family expected, understandably, that the move to Vvardenfell would have a great effect on their own standing with the house, and apparently there was even some talk of a seat on the house council. Their fall from such lofty goals seems to relate to my quest. I continued my research. Malven's view, as a Dunmer who has left the conflicts of the great houses to serve with the guild, served to fill in details that the archives of annual Red Books in the Vivec temple library left unsaid, but with her help I was able to reconstruct events, at least in theory.

In the rough and tumble days of the recolonization, power within the house shifted more towards Bolvyn Venim, who had seized the council chair on the strength of his position on the move. The Sarens, being already established here, detracted from the consolidation of his base of support. To stave off any division Venim pushed through a restructuring of the council that awarded seats to those who were financially and physically capable of wresting a secure stronghold from the wilderness of the Redoran district, which effectively excluded the old guard of Temple loyalists who were already serving the house here in Vivec, and at Ghostgate and Molag Mar. Among the new rising stars was Hlaren Ramoran. This background of internal conflict within the house put the Sarens squarely on the opposite side from Ramoran, so I'm sure his attentions to their daughter were not welcomed.

Once I exhausted the other resources I went to the Saren home in the plaza of the Redoran canton. Even though they lost the power struggle they live in an opulent manor and continue to play a vital role in the relations between the House and the temple. Tiros Saren was not happy about meeting me. With Bal Isra under construction perhaps I am cut in the same rising star mold that embittered him against Hlaren Ramoran so long ago.

"We do not discuss Navilie. She is a disgrace to our family." That was all he had to say when I told him that she was the reason for my visit. Eventually, through a combination of applying pressure as a representative of the council and a liberal bribe I got his tongue loosened.

Navilie runs a shop out of a squalid apartment on the canal level of St. Olms canton. Canal level apartments open directly to the outdoor decking that surrounds the cantons. The temple, which collects rent on all property in the city, tries to maintain a level of piety and decency but even so there will always be areas where certain vices flourish in a city of this size. The canal levels of St. Olms and St. Delayn cantons are rife with the petty criminals that can be found in the underbelly of any city.

Tiros Saren had called her business a 'consignment shop', and perhaps among her wares there were some goods that had been placed there to be sold by the owners. Much of it, I suspect, was reclaimed from the trash bins and sewers of the city after being cast off by the higher strata of Vivec society. It was sadly appropriate that Navilie Saren, herself cast off by that upper strata, would find such a nitch for herself in the swirling currents of canal level society.

"I cannot allow Hlaren to see me," she said. "If he has attained any wisdom along with his position he would know that my disgrace is far too great and he would reject me anyway. If he has not I would be his ruin."

"Being cast out by your family because they disapproved of a suitor, that isn't such a disgrace that it can't be overcome. Being a shopkeeper, even of such a shop as this, is a respectable trade. Not everyone can dine at the tables of the nobility. Hlaren wouldn't be the first council member to be involved with a shopkeeper, and not likely the last."

"Shopkeeper," she laughed a dry, bitter laugh. "You think I can make a living hawking these low cast offs? Battered bits of armor, threadbare clothes; sometimes these are needed by the desperate, but how much do you think the desperate can pay? My family threw me out, just like they would throw out anything else that might be sold in this shop. When I was first cast out I was the only commodity I had to trade, and I'm still the most valuable. I cannot tell you how many times I've been bought and sold. You still think I'm fit for a lofty councilman?" The bitterness fled from her features, shut off like a light, replaced with a lascivious grin filled with wanton promise. "But perhaps fit for his outlander errand boy, for the right price."

I fled. I don't know what I will tell Ramoran, but I couldn't face him if I had that on my conscience.

_**Day 26: War Council**_

Looking back on this day I think I might have been avoiding the issue of reporting back to Lord Ramoran. I woke up this morning in my office at the guild headquarters, slowly climbed the stairs, looked at the guild guide platform, and did not get teleported to Ald-ruhn. Instead I walked back down the stairs and slumped at my desk.

"Did you find the one you seek, Archmage?" Malven asked as she passed by after breakfast. It was a simple question, and she obviously expected to get a simple answer. She didn't break stride until she heard my non-committal grunt in response. "Hmmm?" she said as she turned. "That was not the decisive Archmage we have all gotten familiar with."

"I found her Malven," I admitted, "but I don't really know what to do with her."

Her raised eyebrow was a question, but I didn't really think discussing the situation with her would give me any clue what to tell Lord Ramoran. She hovered over my desk, wondering what to do now that she had stopped. I couldn't just sit there all day doing nothing, but I did not want to get up and go. Following her gaze to the brown book on my desk gave me a straw to grasp. "Yes, that's the current book of the Telvanni," I said. "Send messages to the other stewards and see if they can be here this afternoon." She hustled out of my office relieved.

I picked up the book that I had gotten from Baladas. Each great house publishes an annual book, detailing their progress for the previous year and their agenda for the next. Among the useful information in the manual are the names and residences of all the current council members. I let my eye drift down the list.

Malven returned promptly. "Skink has some things to juggle in his schedule, but can be here before dinner. The others have no problem with meeting then. Will that work for you?" I nearly leapt from my chair. "That will be fine," I said. She nodded and went to finalize the planned meeting, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I could tell myself that I was staying on guild business, not just hiding from Lord Ramoran.

I left the guild hall and wandered through the city. The mists rising from the waters surrounding the cantons hung in the air, and glistened on the stone surfaces of the decks and ramps. The nearly endless lifespan of the Dunmer make childhood a very brief interlude, so there are few children to see in Morrowind. I thought of bright laughing Breton children, who would be skidding down the damp slick ramps endlessly. I am now one of those immortals, not just walking among them, and mated to a Khajiit. There are no happy Breton children in my future either.

I stood on the lowest decking of the Hlaalu compound near the bridge. A kagouti on the distant shore browsed among the comberry bushes. I watched the huge creature, recalling the first I had encountered. At that time, new to Vvardenfell, it was all I could hope for to drive the monster away without being killed. Had my limited skill with the spear guided it to the beast's mighty heart, or had it just been good fortune? "That one is too close to the trail," came a voice at my shoulder. I turned to see the gilded helm of an Ordinator.

"The kagouti?"

"Yes. Suffering from the yellow tick as well it seems," he said. The kagouti was balanced on one massive leg, clawing a raw, bloody patch behind its ear with the talons of the other. He hefted his mace, but seemed hesitant.

"This is going to make a mess of your uniform," I suggested.

He sighed behind the mask. "Has to be done though. The yellow tick will torment the poor creature until it claws itself to death, if it isn't driven into a mad rage first. We can't have that." He took a reluctant step towards the bridge.

"Wait," I said. Ordinators are well known for their skill in combat, and I had no doubt that this plucky individual would end the kagouti's torment, but getting clubbed down with repeated blows of the mace did not seem a merciful death.

A golden glow seeped from my palms, and I pressed my hands together briefly, then drew them rapidly apart. The glowing magica stretched, coalesced, bent. With a soft pop it solidified into a powerful Daedric longbow. I caught it deftly as the weightless magica transitioned into solid form. I drew a shaft from the unobtrusive quiver that is always concealed beneath my robe.

"Do not make the beast angry, Wizard," said the Ordinator.

"I won't," I whispered as the wisp of magical bowstring feathered against my cheek. With a hiss the string snapped through the air and the shaft was away. Motor memory guided my hands and a second arrow was on the string before the first reached its distant mark. Reflex, but in this case unnecessary. The Kagouti fell silently as the razor sharp broadhead burst through its eye into the walnut sized brain. Death came instantly, and painlessly, dropped like a thunderbolt from the cloudless sky. "And it's Master Wizard, or Archmage," I added absently. "Arvil Bren to my friends." I extended my hand as the bow returned to its own Daedric realm with an audible pop. "There won't be much blood if you want to drag the carcass away, but mudcrabs are immune to the yellow tick and I would assume they will make short work of it."

"Yes, I'm sure they will," he said, turning an eye to the water. "Thank you... Master Wizard." He couldn't quite bring himself to the familiarity of my name, but he did shake my hand. I have come a long way from the 'outlander scum' that I was called in my first trip to Vivec. I picked up lunch from the Flowers of Gold, guar steak sliced thinly on a hard roll, and took it to the temple courtyard of the High Fane, and basked in the sunshine while I ate. An idyllic day, overall.

My 'council of war' was anticlimactic. The guild is as ready as it will ever be, but if pressing my claim to the Hortator title of House Telvanni calls for blood to be shed it will certainly fall to me to shed it. My stewards promise that they can fend off any retaliation, at least in the short term. It is well that the legions have not withdrawn. Skink's chapter would not survive without the shelter of Wolverine Hall. I will have to move against the Telvanni with haste.

_**Day 27: Back to Ald-ruhn**_

I have returned to Ald-ruhn, but still have not reported to Lord Ramoran. I don't yet know what I'm going to tell him about his lost love. I have an appointment with him tomorrow, so I will have to figure out something.

I was too busy to give the matter much thought today. When I teleported in to the guild hall I was told Edwinna was holding a message for me. It was from Lloros Sarano at the temple. I listened to the ash-storm howling outside as I read his request. Rather than push through the swirling ash I opted to use an intervention spell to reach the nearby temple courtyard. A wasteful display of magica perhaps, but I just wasn't ready for the grit that inevitibly works itself under the armor and collects in the corners of the eyes.

Lloros had decoded the note I recovered from Galtis, the gambler who had given Varvur Sarethi the ash statue. The note was instructions regarding distribution of the statues, as could have been expected. The biggest difficulty of decoding it had been that it was written in an ancient dialect, a dialect common in house Dagoth. The priest had traced the origin of the note to a commoner, Hanarai Assutlanipal. I consulted with the Redoran guard about her.

She lived in one of the numerous small houses in Ald-ruhn, paid her rent on time and drew little attention to herself. So little attention that no one we spoke to was quite sure how she made her living. I did not envy the junior guardsmen who were dispatched into the ash storm early in the investigation to keep a watch on her home. I envied them even less when one of them burst breathlessly into the guard headquarters.

He reported that two men had been seen leaving the house under cover of the storm. When the guards approached them they had fled into the ash with a trio of guards in close pursuit. Our breathless informant had been sent to report, and get assistance. We rushed out into the blowing ash, spears at the ready, and sped eastward towards the slopes of Red Mountain. We did not go far before we heard the shouts for help, cutting thinly through the howling wind.

One guard stood over his two fallen companions, who writhed on the ground. I let the guard captain ask the questions, listening absently as I kept a wary eye roving through the blowing ash around us. The two fallen guardsmen were showing the signs of rapidly advancing corprus, evidence of a Dagoth somewhere nearby. The description of the two men clearly marked them as dreamers. The dreamers had split up, with the lucky guard pursuing one while his two companions apparently followed the other into an ambush. The captain quickly drew out this summary of events while arranging litters to bring his fallen guardsmen to the temple.

A short time later we sat in his office. "Two good men lost; a dark day Arvil Bren."

"That's not the worst of it," I said.

"You'll want a raid on the house, I assume."

"Yes, but I'll do that myself. Corprus is too dangerous. I have a certain...resistance. Keep your men clear. But before we worry about that, you need to put a watch on your lucky guardsman."

"He's at the temple with his fallen comrades, waiting to bring me word when Lloros Saranen completes his examination. Why do I need to watch him? Do you think he might have been exposed to the corprus?"

"No, I'm sure he was not. Here is a question though. If the two dreamers knew they were running towards a Dagoth who would ambush their pursuers, why would they have split up? The Sixth House has sleepers everywhere captain, never drop your guard." With that ominous warning I stepped out into the storm.

A new group of guards held a loose perimeter around Hanarai Assutlanipal's hut. They were understandably nervous. "She is inside," one said quietly as I approached her.

"Well done," I replied. "It falls to me to go in and get her then."

Subtlety had gotten me nowhere with Galtis at the Rat In the Pot. I also thought that making an impression on the guards might be a good thing. Perhaps really I was just irritated by the ash that had slithered down into my boots and was slowly chafing the skin off my ankles. I combined a powerful opening spell with a massive discharge of elemental lightning and blasted Hanarai Assutlanipal's door off its hinges.

The woman was not intimidated, and rushed me as I charged through the splintered doorway. I sidestepped the slashing dagger and crashed my fist, encased in a Daedric gauntlet, against her temple. She dropped like a slaughtered guar, and I kicked the dagger away as her fingers uncurled from the hilt. I called in the guards and they led her away. Behind a locked door in the basement of the house I found a Sixth House shrine, and crates of ash statues.

Later, at the Temple, I sat in Lloros' chamber emptying the grit from my boots into his wastebasket. It seems uncouth, but is actually accepted in Ald-ruhn as a neccessary common practice.

"You were right about that guard," he said. His voice was dispirited.

"What happened?"

"The captain ordered a watch on him, but by the time they got here he had gone. They went looking for him, but didn't raise a general alarm. He made a stop at the jail...chatted up one of the guards there about taking her to the guar races. She didn't think much of it, but apparently he slipped a knife into Hanarai Assutlanipal's cell. She cut her own throat before I could interrogate her. The guard has disappeared."

Not the most successful day. The ash statues, at least, have been destroyed.

_**Day 28: Redoran Council**_

I arrived at the council chambers for my appointment with Lord Ramoran, only to find that he had been called to a council meeting. I stood for a moment trying to decide whether to wait or have a messenger sent when he returned. There was no decision to make.

"Your presence at the council meeting is required," the page said. There was an ominous edge to her words.

I appeared at the main door of the council meeting room. Another page slipped inside to inform the council of my arrival. As the door quickly opened and closed, I could hear a brief burst of raised angry voices. Tempers were clearly coming to a boil.

The page returned. "The council will be taking a break. When they return they will be wanting you," he said.

I wandered the halls. As the bells rang, recalling the council into session, I saw Lord Ramoran. I fell into step beside him as we headed towards the meeting room. "Did you find her?" he asked.

I didn't want to lie. I also saw no point in telling him the truth. "The woman you loved is no more, sir. My deepest condolences to you and her family."

"Sad," he said after a moment. "I suppose I always knew in my heart that she was dead." We walked into the meeting hall and I was satisfied. In his heart, dead was the best thing for her to be.

Getting Lord Ramoran on my side could not have come at a better time. Otherwise I might have found myself writing this in a cell. I was summoned to the council as part of Venim's response to the ash statue crisis, and his intent was clearly to put some sort of blame on me.

"You!" Bolvyn Venim roared as soon as everyone had gained their seats. "You have risen rapidly through the ranks of our house with your outlander magic and trickery, but now you have made a mistake! Others may be easily mislead as to your motives, but I will brook no interference in Ald-ruhn! We have guards. They have responsibilities. Your involvement has left them crippled with uncertainty! Sleepers! Indeed! How do we know the danger among us is this 'sixth house', not your own imperial guild, wizard?"

"By using your brains, sir. I have served the house faithfully. The mage's of my guild provide for the defense of Maar Gan. The local temple called on me to investigate the ash statues. I was happy to help, since I know there is a war coming. My guild stands ready to fight House Dagoth. You lead the house I have chosen to serve. Are you preparing to lead our house to war, or are you keeping it divided against itself to maintain your own power until Dagoth Ur strips it from you?"

His red eyes blazed, and bulged above the dusky cheekbones. "You dare!" He glared around the chamber, expecting far more support than he got.

"Yes, I dare. The war will come, like it or not. Your petty politics cannot be what leads the house when it does. It is war, the time of the Hortator."

He actually laughed. "Hortator? And who might this Hortator be outlander?" Again he glanced around, stopping at his greatest rival. "Sarethi! Surely even you would not stoop to this...outlander! Even if you think you can wrest control of this council from me, House Redoran will have an outlander Hortator over my dead body!"

It wasn't exactly a challenge, but Sarethi is enough of a politician to twist the words. "A duel to the death Bolvyn? Are you sure you would go that far?"

"I will slit your rotten carcass Sarethi!" he screamed.

"Your duel is not with him, Venim. It is with me. I will be Hortator. If it must be over your fallen corpse, so be it."

"I do not duel with wizards outlander. Save your talk for your own guild's challengers. This is a house matter."

"And this is my house. I am well aware of the Redoran rules of dueling. Rules you have promoted to keep the wiser, more thoughtful members of the council in check. I will follow your rules Venim, and show everyone that the day of the politician has ended. It is war Venim, the hour of the Hortator is at hand!"

With the support of Morvayn and Ramoran, Lord Sarethi took over the council, pending resolution of the duel. I left Ald-ruhn directly, establishing myself in my offices in Vivec, safe from any 'accident' that would prevent my appearance at the arena tomorrow. The betting has already begun.

_**Day 29: Dead?**_

"Arvil Bren is a dead man."

That's what the banner high on the south side of the arena said. I think they were Telvannis. Venim saluted them with his huge Daedric katana. I just tried to ignore them. This duel was a much different event than my previous experience in the Vivec arena. Then there was a crowd, as any spectacle will bring, but mostly they turned out for the novelty of watching a couple outlander wizards; they didn't really care who won. Tonight the crowd was beyond standing room only, with people shouting from the doorways to those who could not make it inside. And almost all of them wanted Venim to win.

The differences started becoming obvious this morning when I went to the arena to register, and received the rules of the duel. 'No enchantments of any sort' called for a quick trip to Pelagiad. I considered going with a lighter armor, since I would be without my pants of strongleg, but assumed that Venim would be armed with some sort of Daedric weapon that would shear through anything but the heaviest armors like they weren't even there. As the saying goes, sometimes you just have to put on the heavy tin suit and slug it out. Or in this case the heavy ebony suit. I walked back to Vivec. I didn't want to wear myself out, but I did want to get adjusted to moving under the heavy weight, and without the boots of blinding speed.

I also had to seriously consider my choice of weapon. At the time I didn't really know how Venim would be armed or what style he would adopt, but Sarethi had told me that Venim was trained in the Akiviri style so the dai katana was not a complete surprise. My own ability with the long swords has greatly improved through my adventures, and living with a Khajiit has given me ample opportunity to practice the Akiviri styles myself. I considered my own Daedric katana, hefting the wickedly sharp curved blade. I also swung the great two-handed claymore sword a few times. The Daedric edge, with the great mass of the sword behind it, would cleave through any armor that Venim could come up with, but swinging that weight is more appropriate for the great berserker strength of an Orc or a Nord, and calls for a certain durability since the wielder can assume they will suffer some wounds in the process.

Eventually I opted to step away from my Daedric armory. The ebony shaft of the spear was familiar in my hands. As I walked back to Vivec I took comfort from the years of practice stretching all the way back to my youth. My father always preferred the spear. He liked to stay out of reach of his opponents. A wise sentiment, and as I considered Venim's likely fury it had definite appeal.

Sharn gra Muzgrob arrived from Balmora shortly after I got back to the guild headquarters. Each duelist is allowed a stand by, who provides healing to the victor as soon as the loser is dispatched. I probably did not gain great acceptance by having the green skinned Orc at my side in the arena. Venim had a high ranking member of the Tribunal Temple; a much better political choice. While not a benefit politically, there is no healer I would rather trust with my life than Sharn.

Eventually the appointed hour arrived. Unlike my duel with Trebonius, this was a formal occassion and honor had to be preserved. Rather than immediately blasting away when the doors opened we both stalked out into the arena for a round of introductions and proclamations. I was awed.

The applause for Venim thundered down on us when he was introduced. Despite the differences of the interminable great house wars it was clear that he was highly favored over an outlander. When the announcer proclaimed that the conflict at the source of the duel was my claiming of the title of Hortator a hush fell over the arena. I looked up into the sea of red eyes and saw the enormity of my task. To be the war leader of the Redorans would require the defeat of their greatest warrior, and even then I could not be certain that Sarethi would hold to his promise of support. Nor could I think that the Redoran people would fall happily into line behind me. Looking up at the Redoran box I could see him sitting in the center seat of the council chairman; his temporarily, at least until the end of the duel. If Venim won Sarethi was bound to relinquish the seat, if not it was his. He was perhaps the only Dunmer in the arena hoping I would emerge victorious, other than my own guild members.

Sarethi rose for the final formality. Venim and I are both Redorans. As acting chair of the council Sarethi could have forbidden the duel. As the announcer clearly explained this option I considered consequences, but immediately put it from my mind. Even as the temporary head of a great house he could not really do it. This crowd had gathered for a show, I cannot imagine their vengence if Sarethi had denied them.

Similarly, when Venim was given an opportunity to withdraw his opposition to my claim there was no way the crowd would allow it. My own opportunity to withdraw my claim was also a mere formality. The final preliminaries completed, Venim and I backed to our respective entries, and the announcer strode out of the arena. A great gong sounded with a dull reverberation and the crowd fell silent.

We circled, both of us moving to our left. There was no rush. I sized up my opponent. He moved smoothly, quickly, on the balls of his feet despite the great weight of his ebony armor. He grasped the dai katana, with its long hilt that counterbalanced the huge blade, in a proper two handed grip. The tip of the blade traced lazy figure eights in front of him. High on his left, down to his right, up and then back down as it crossed back to his left. For my part I kept my spear at the ready in a quarterstaff grip. I intended to fend off his first few attacks, concentrating on defenses.

He waited for a waver in my attention, so I gave him one, flicking my glance quickly to the crowd behind him and back. As I expected the languid motion of his blade exploded into a kinetic frenzy. I had timed my glance as the blade rose on my right and prepared for an overhand stroke. I leapt to my right as I swept the blade past me with the butt of my spear and we resumed our circling, now both moving to our right.

"Fine parry, outlander," Venim grunted.

"Skill with the spear honors the Redorans," I replied.

The crowd had uniformly sucked in their breath at the first clash of arms, and sighed it out as we spoke.

"They are waiting to cheer for your death," my opponent taunted.

"They will have a long wait."

"Perhaps, but if all you can do is circle and parry they will eventually be satisfied."

With that he brought another overhand blow from my right. There had not been a trace of warning in his even voice. I dropped to my right knee and slapped his blade up with my spear, letting it whistle harmlessly over my head. Against a lesser foe I would have tried to sweep my spearpoint across him as the force of his blow spun him away to my left. I held back, noting how quickly he spun full circle, ending with the huge blade in a vertical parry. Instead I concentrated on bouncing back up from my knee as quickly as possible. The circle stopped.

"The Telvanni Mouths are all in the Telvanni box," Venim observed. "I haven't seen all of them in one place for centuries. They came to see you die. You should be honored."

"If anything could unite the Telvanni it's their opposition to my guild."

"And you would be our Hortator. We already have conflicts over territory with the Telvanni. You want outright war with them for our house?"

"I will be their Hortator as well."

He almost laughed. "You try to get me off guard with jokes outlander? You will have to kill them all. Then the mouths will succeed to power and you will likely have to kill them too."

Again he struck on the last word, and again there was no break or hesitation in his voice. This time the blow was a low sweep that came from my left, and it tested my strength to leap over the glittering arc. I tried to strike down at the passing blade as it cleared to my right. Had I made contact I could have forced the momentum of the swing to carry the blade into the sand and slowed his spin back to parry, but I was a split second slow.

"Nice try," he said with a haughty grin.

"That's one miss for me. I believe you are at three."

The grin disappeared into a snarl. A duel is a test of concentration as much as anything else. The first tiny crack had appeared, and it was on him. His next attack was preceeded by a sharp breath. The time to test the ebony spear had come, and I drove the point deep into the sand. His blade crashed against the shaft, but could not bite into the hardened volcanic material. As is typical of the Akaviri style he followed through in a spinning move, his wrists flexing to let the great blade drag past the planted spear. I was quite safe behind its thin shelter, bracing the shaft well above the arc of his blade.

"Stings a bit, doesn't it?" I asked calmly. I knew the answer. The ringing blow had fed back through the blade, and his hands would be slightly numb from the vibration. The desire to release the hilt and shake them to life one at a time would be gnawing at him for a few moments. I feinted a thrust with the spear to keep him from even considering creating such an opportunity. "That's four misses for you by the way. The faithful in the stands are hardly gasping any more. They are beginning to see that their champion is overmatched." That was really a stretch. The crowd was roaring their approval with every slash of his sword, but I was wearing on his patience and concentration.

One of my favorite things about the spear is that so many spearmen prefer it for the same reasons as my father. They like to stay out of reach of their opponents. Eventually Venim, like so many other veterans of many battles, came to expect that a spearman would tend to move away from an attack. In a duel anticipation is the ultimate weapon, but expectation is poison. After innumerable combinations of slashes and parries, sidestepped thrusts, and ringing clashes of hardened Daedric on ebony, the moment came.

I anticipated another low sweep from my left, and met it with a rapid spin. I stepped onto the butt of my spear with my right foot as I threw my left back and away from the blow. His blade sang down the shaft of the spear into the tight vee it made with the sand as I effectively rolled over the leaning shaft. Venim did not expect me to be coming at him, and with his own spin interrupted he was caught full in the face by the back of my armored left fist. I continued my rotation, following that initial smash with a punishing blow to the throat from the shaft of my spear. As he stumbled back I brought in the point and drove him off his feet, following with all my weight and momentum to drive the razor sharp needle of ebony through the flexible joint between his breastplate and the paldron on his left shoulder as his back hit the sand. I kicked the blade from his dying fingers.

He choked. I don't know if it was from the blow to his throat or on blood welling from his punctured lung. Through bloody foam , he gasped "What price this victory, outlander? You will bring the ruin of our house."

"No Venim. Go to your ancestors in peace. I swear to you that the safety of your house is assured by this. My oath, by moon and star."

He stopped struggling. Perhaps his ancestors soothed his departing spirit, or perhaps it was Azura. As his eyes closed a last word slipped from his lips. "Nerevar."

Perhaps Arvil Bren is indeed dead. Can this body really be shared?


	2. Chapter 2

_**Day 30: Hortator**_

I woke up sore this morning. I might have to stop relying so heavily on my various enchantments and try to keep in better natural shape. Jumping around in full ebony armor took a lot out of me. Waking up with Ahnassi purring contentedly in my arms made up for the soreness.

We had a late breakfast at the Halfway Tavern, where news of last night's events had not yet reached. It was good to be just Arvil Bren, the wandering wizard. Even though our friends know that I have 'made good' and become the Archmage, they still treat me as just one of the local folk. It remains to be seen if that will hold true for the Hortator of the Redorans...or the Nerevarine. I hold out little hope. If I had been holding more than a little hope it would have been dashed in Ald-ruhn.

When I arrived at the guild hall the stack of messages let me know immediately that time would not be a luxury. The council had been calling regularly for my presence since shortly after dawn. Immediately following every official summons came a short note from Sarethi; "see me first". When I walked in the door of his manor a page immediately fled for the council chambers, and the new chairman of the council appeared at a trot.

"Hortator," he greeted me. I felt a wash of relief, at least I would not have to fight to hold him to his promise of support.

"Chairman," I responded in kind.

He held out an ornate ring. "This is the Redoran Ring of the Hortator. It will identify you and leave no doubt that you have the full support of the council."

"Excellent," I said, slipping the ring onto my finger.

"Unfortunately that support is putting us in a difficult position." He handed me a broadsheet that had obviously been removed from some posting somewhere. "You have been identified as an Imperial agent, sent to masquerade as the Nerevarine and betray us into even more onerous Imperial rule."

There are times when the only effective thing to do is tell the truth. This was one of those times. "That is true. I was brought to Morrowind specifically because I was born on the right day to be the Nerevarine, and sent immediately to the Imperial spymaster as a member of the Blades. I'm sure this is being released now," I shook the damning public notice, "because the Emperor is just beginning to realize that I have out reached his expectations. Rather than masquerading as the Nerevarine, fulfilling the prophecies is making me the Nerevarine." I reached into my pouch. "You have given me the ring of the Hortator, but this I got from Azura." With that I slid Moon and Star onto my finger and raised my hand high.

Sarethi gasped. "Nerevar."

"Not yet. There is still much to be done. But I am counting on you to hold the base of my support here. I wield the Bone-biter Bow of Sul-Senipul. The Urshilaku, the cult of the Nerevarine, they are mine as well; but two houses and three tribes remain. I cannot wait here for Dagoth Ur, I must rally the rest of Vvardenfell to my banner."

"And you must stay clear of the Tribunal I fear." He handed me a package. It contained a message from Archcanon Saryoni, the High Archcanon of Vivec.

I read the message and handed it to him.

"It is not as bad as it could be. At the highest levels the temple is at least admitting there could be a Nerevarine. When I have met the trials 'three houses name him Hortator' and 'four tribes call him Nerevarine' the Archcanon himself will meet with me to assess my claim. Until then though, it appears the Ordinators would still gut me in an instant to prove that I am not."

Sarethi was incredulous. "Three houses?" he sputtered. "When you said 'rally the rest of Vvardenfell' I assumed you meant to bring the general population under the Redoran banner. The other houses will not accept you as Hortator! The Telvanni? You are the Archmage of the Imperial Mages, their arch enemy! The Hlaalu? Their council is run by Orvas Dren! He hates outlanders with a blinding rage!"

"Great deeds are not made great by the ease with which they are accomplished my friend," I said. The Moon and Star pulsed on my finger as I put my hand on his shoulder. "You have suffered the ancient Altmer curse, you have come to lead your house in interesting times." The glow from the ring spread over his shoulders like a cloak, apparently with soothing effect.

He shook himself. "Of course. You will have the full support of House Redoran, which would have seemed impossible as well not long ago. That in itself may help pave the way."

"No doubt," I said. "Now, let us go speak to the council."

I put the Moon and Star back in my pouch. Sarethi had already been confirmed as chairman, and the service I had rendered and the dire times were sufficient to bring the others solidly into agreement. I will have no problems with Redoran guards, and no interference from the temple with the Redoran Hortator will be tolerated in Redoran territory. How things will be beyond the border remains in doubt.

Once the council had nattered over every word of the official proclamation it was sent on its way, and I went on mine. I would go home, but travel from pelagiad always involves that walk from the temple to the guild hall in Balmora. I don't want the delay or the risk. Tomorrow I will stride directly into the den of my foes; the council chamber of house Telvanni.

_**Day 31: The ears of the mouths**_

The Telvanni council is unique. It is a structure in place exclusively for the purpose of dealing with the other houses, and actually exercises little, if any, control over Telvanni affairs. The Telvanni wizard lords do not welcome control, or really even strive for cooperation. Each has their tower, and their supporters, who are held as much in fear as they are in need of protection. Even Telvanni council documents sent to other houses as agreements specifically state that they should not be interpreted as binding on whatever wizard lord might choose to take a path different from the council position, making negotiations with the Telvanni basically useless.

I knew all this, of course, but still Skink and I reviewed it point by point after I teleported into Sadrith Mora this morning.

"Their council doesn't even meet, for fear they will kill each other," he hissed. "They are represented by 'mouths', lesser wizards who speak for them in their council. The only thing that keeps the mouths from killing each other is the potential loss of their patron's favor. I am well known to them, despite their dislike for our guild, and I am sure they would grant you an audience, as the Archmage. You would be safe from attack. They would not make such a decision without consulting their masters."

I considered his words, briefly. To Arvil Bren, Archmage, they made sense; but the weight of Moon and Star in the pouch at my belt pulled ominously, and that within me that is no longer me felt that tug as a call to action. "I do not have time for the Telvanni's games," I said as I rose to my feet. "I am no longer just the Archmage." I raised my hand, adorned with the Ring of the Hortator. "I am Hortator of a rival House, a warlord by ancient custom. They will see me." I left Skink with any objection he might have unsaid. He could tell it would make no difference.

I swept into the council hall with my spear in hand. A Dunmer woman, no doubt a wizard of some substantial skills, held the entry hall. "The council is in session," she said primly. "There is no one listed to address them on the agenda this morning. You may send a petition to address them by courier if you wish, or if you have it with you you may leave it. Should your petition be granted you will have to appear without that." She indicated the spear with a dismissive wave and a sniff. "Weapons are not allowed in the presence of Telvanni councilors."

"There are no councilors present, you petty functionary," I snarled. "This spear, which you want so much to dismiss, recently drank the blood of a Great House councilor, the chairman of the Redorans in fact, who was the last man to try to deny the Hortator." I brought the spear directly under her nose, the fist clenched around the shaft sparkling with the Ring of the Hortator. "Now, just so you are not completely condemned by the mouths for letting me in armed I am going to let you hold this while I speak to them." I released my grip and bellowed "Don't drop it!" directly into her startled face. She gathered the falling ebony into her arms.

I crashed through the door into the main meeting hall, bursting into a sudden silence. The five mage lords known as the mouths gaped from their podiums around the periphery of the chamber. "You all know me. You saw me just the other night, but your doorkeep denied access to my spear so perhaps you do not recognize me." I clapped my hands together and a Daedric spear burst into existence with a boom of thunder.

"Spare us the cheap theatrics Arvil Bren. We know who you are. We have nothing to say to you."

"I didn't come here for anything you might have to say. Your masters would not be bound by the mouths of their mouths in the matter at hand anyway. The only thing that matters here are your ears. You will hear what I have to say and report it to your masters, because they would be most upset if you didn't let them know I was coming for them."

"Coming for them?"

I slid the second ring onto my finger. "Yes. I am the Hortator of the Redorans, and the Nerevarine. They will name me Hortator as well, or after I kill them you will." Moon and Star erupted in white light, too bright to look at. The mouths fell back, shielding their eyes from the glare. I stalked out of the room. The ring was still blazing when I shoved through the door, and the chastened doorkeeper turned her head away as she held out my spear. I returned the conjured Daedric to its nether realm with a passing thought and grasped the substantial ebony. The ring pulsed, consuming the light, and settled to normalcy.

"How did it go?" Skink asked.

"As well as could be expected. Tomorrow I sail for Tel Aruhn to see Archmagister Gothren"

_**Day 32: Hostile territory**_

It started early this morning, on the docks of Sadrith Mora. A fine sturdy craft rode high in the water, her master lounging against the mast. Before I could speak she started quoting prices for distant destinations.

"I'm just going to Tel Aruhn today," I said.

"Not worth my time," said the captain. I didn't know what to say. Tel Aruhn is very close to Sadrith Mora, true enough, but almost all travel in the rugged Azura's Coast region is by water. She could easily drop me off on her way to any other port, or she could have been back in a few hours to get her next charter.

"Look outlander, I don't care how you get to Tel Aruhn. Fly. Swim. Water walk. For that matter I don't even care if you get to Tel Aruhn, but you aren't getting there by standing around on my boat, so get off." I realized that the reason I didn't know what to say was that there just wasn't anything to be said, so I left.

I water walked across the narrow channels and clambered up the rocky shores of the islands through the crashing surf. Kagouti among the towering spires, flights of cliff racers; delays came from all sides. What could have been a quick voyage wasted half the day, but eventually the great tower of Archmagister Gothren came into view.

The Telvanni wizard lords don't build their towers, they grow them. The giant mushrooms of Morrowind, like their smaller brethren, are focal points for magicka, and the Telvanni use their craft to shape the magicka, along with the material. Four huge mushroom caps loomed overhead, supported by their stems that entwined into a single central stalk. Undoubtedly that stalk would be hollow, providing a vertical shaft giving access to the chambers inside the caps above. At the feet of this awesome structure smaller 'buildings' huddled. The lesser mushrooms also offered hollow chambers in their caps, with twisted ladders grown from trama vine providing access for those unable or unwilling to fly. I walked past the long flat tendrils that are trained along the surface of the water to serve the Telvanni as docks, and their towers as roots.

With more than half the day gone I reconsidered my direct approach to the Archmagister. The Pot and Plaster was familiar, and I determined to refresh myself with their hospitality and present myself in the morning. Another miscalculation.

The proprietor of the Pot and Plaster did not remember my previous visit, but recognized me immediately from my current notoriety. "We have no rooms, outlander," he said as I walked through the door. Again my plans changed.

"I won't be staying then. I'll just quickly refresh myself from my travels and be on my way." I reached for my money pouch.

"You've not traveled far enough, outlander. Refresh yourself elsewhere, perhaps on your own shores. Lord Dagoth rises. Sleepers awake. Your time here is through." The red eyes blazed. In Telvanni territory I could count on short shrift from the authorities, which evidently emboldens the sleepers. I left quickly to avoid a fight that would cost me as much to win as lose.

Back on the ground I considered my options. With my temper already flaring I had no desire to face Gothren. I could have teleported back to Sadrith Mora and repeated the trek tomorrow, without the aggravation of having transportation and hospitality surprisingly denied me since I now know there will be none. There was another option that merited at least some investigation in the remaining daylight though.

So here I am, writing my journal by the magical light of a spell, in the cabin of an unknown wreck lodged on the rocky outcrops of an island near Tel Aruhn. While lacking in many comforts, it offers shelter from the weather, and with a locking spell on the cabin door some measure of security from predators. I shall sleep well, if lightly, to recover my strength of body and mind, then face Gothren tomorrow.

_**Day 33: What did he say?**_

It was surprisingly easy to see Gothren. It seems that overnight everyone in Tel Aruhn heard that I was coming. It also seems as if they were told to cooperate. A fierce Orc bid me welcome as I walked up from theshore near the docks.

"Greetings outlander, may your kills be quick, and many," the heavily armored warrior said.

"Greetings," I replied cautiously.

"You are here to see the Archmagister I assume?"

"Yes. Yes I am." I watched the Orc's scaly hands, but they made no move for the great axe at his belt.

"He can be found in the highest room of the tower." He pointed vaguely upwards. "There is a balcony, and a short flight of steps. I assume you can fly, or levitate."

"Yes. Is that an appropriate entrance for an unannounced visit?"

"You are hardly unannounced, Archmage."

"Well. Thank you then. I'll be off." I took a step backwards as I gathered the deep purple glow of alteration magicka.

"Watch out for the central shaft," he said as a final warning. "It's a long fall."

I floated weightlessly up to the balcony, wondering if I was walking into a trap. Before the spell wore off I drifted higher and inspected the stair. It seemed solid enough. I touched down, gently. I must admit the view was spectacular. It made a certain sense, in a Telvanni sort of way, to have an inaccessable balcony overlooking such a vista.

Telvanni construction just assumes that everyone can fly, apparently. Even inside the high tower there was no access from the ground floor other than the vertical center shaft. I peered over the edge. The distant floor looked about as big around as a septim coin. The shaft was perfectly straight, and featureless. I was glad for the warning; casting a levitation spell while plummeting down the shaft would have been tricky. I skirted it carefully.

Gothren greeted me from a small chamber around the next corner. On either side of the entry to the chamber towered the animated Daedric armor that is a dremora. There was no way to converse with the Archmagister without being aware of their ominous presence.

We did converse; and converse; and converse. The close little room with the looming guards was exceedingly uncomfortable. And the conversation dragged on. I can see how Gothren came to lead the council. He would commit to absolutely nothing, including not committing. At one point I think he said that he would have to consult with the other council members about consulting with the other council members, but my attention was wandering so I can't be sure. I left late in the afternoon, with nothing really gained.

I stood on the high balcony, looking out over the straits and islands of Azura's Coast. I considered the benefits of just turning around, marching into the tower, and fighting Gothren right then and there. I cannot imagine ever getting through the maze of his endless empty words. Eventually I stepped off the balcony into a cocoon of magicka that floated me softly down to the ground, and returned to Sadrith Mora.

Skink gave off the dry hiss that I have learned is Argonian laughter. "We are not surprised Archmage. Gothren is a wary foe at the conference table that can strike without warning when his opponent is lulled by his endless words. Without warning, and without giving offense. It is only natural that one such as he leads the Telvanni, if you can call it leading."

"And if I had attacked him the others would probably refuse to see me, and I would have to fight them all."

"They would be difficult opponents, probably none more difficult than Gothren though."

"I don't want to kill them all Skink. We need them. We need some of them at least. Dunmer magic is...subtle...in ways that even the greatest Breton wizards could miss."

"As would the wisest people of the root." He nodded. "You are looking to the coming darkness."

"Always, my friend; always." Moon and Star weighed heavily in my pouch. I had the guild guide send me back to Ald-ruhn and retreated to my room.

_**Day 34: Telvanni friend**_

"You should have come to me first," Baladas said when I told him of my approach to the Telvanni Archmagister. "I'd have told you to just kill him."

He was at least partly right. I realized when I woke up this morning that the most likely place to get advice for dealing with the Telvanni was here in Gnisis, so I took an armload of reports and caught the silt strider. I think the caravaners have become accustomed to hearing me curse over the piles of paper that I scatter across the seats when I travel.

"I know the Telvanni consider killing each other a perfectly acceptable way of settling their differences Baladas, but I won't get much help against Dagoth Ur from a pile of dead wizard lords."

"I didn't say you should just kill them all, Arvil, but you will have to kill some. I have no doubt you will eventually kill Gothren. You are not the most patient of men as Arvil Bren the Archmage; as Nerevarene you don't have time to be patient."

"What does that have to do with Gothren?"

"The Archmagister could try the patience of a statue." He waved his hand, encompassing the tower around us. "I petitioned the council when I settled here, a petition to claim just the tower and the grounds for House Telvanni. As a Velothi artifact suitable for occupancy only by a well versed wizard there was sufficient precedent. The Redorans also petitioned, to have me recalled or branded as a rogue. Both petitions remain on the council agenda to this day, and the Archmagister routinely swears to me and to the Redorans that he will see them resolved soon. It has been more than four centuries. Even with the Moon and Star you will not live long enough to hear yes or no from him."

"You make a good case for killing him then Baladas. No disrespect intended, but what's in it for you?"

He laughed. "Too bad you joined the noble Redorans Arvil. You would have made a fine Telvanni. If nothing else my petition might be resolved if Gothren was removed from his progress blocking position, but I suspect that his successor will not only resolve the issue but resolve it in my favor."

"Does that really matter?" It was my turn to gesture at our surroundings. "You don't seem to be letting any lack of official sanction stop you from moving in."

"True. But living so far from Sadrith Mora it is hard to keep up with events. I want to be on the council so I can have a mouth keep an eye on things for me. A close eye; my spies just do not have enough access. If Gothren dies I will very likely take his seat on the council."

An idea began to form. "Who else would benefit from Gothren's demise?" I asked. "Specifically, who would take over as Archmagister? I assume you can't just all kill each other until only one is left. Even among the Telvanni that must be too obviously wasteful."

"Too hard to do. We Telvanni are cautious, we don't kill easily." He pondered for a moment, as if he hadn't already thought through every angle. "Aryon," he said. "Most likely Aryon would come to power, I'd say."

"And he would resolve your petition your way, I suppose...and don't bother with the 'I haven't thought about it' look, Baladas, we're all friends here."

He chuckled again. "As I said, you would have made a fine Telvanni. Yes, Aryon would support my petition, and award me the vacant seat on the council, in return for me supporting him to the Archmagister seat. All that aside though he is really the only choice."

"Why is that?" I asked, thinking that 'the only choice' and 'the best choice for Baladas' being one and the same was more than a coincidence.

"Neloth might have been a better choice five centuries ago, but he is too old and set in his ways. I don't think he would even want to be Archmagister in these difficult times. Dratha hates men. Neloth and Aryon could never allow her the power of the Archmagistrate, she would kill them both, or have them emasculated at the very least. And Therana's judgment is...slipping...of late. The centuries are beginning to take their toll."

"But if Dratha hates men so much how will Aryon get her support?"

"He won't, but he probably won't have to."

"Why?"

"Because you probably won't be able to either, so you'll have killed her before she can give Aryon any problems." I gaped at him. "It's so refreshing to have a friend, and not have to pretend that I don't have this all worked out!" he crowed.

"So if I had come here first..."

"I'd have sent you straight to Aryon. He's expecting you."

I enjoyed a fine dinner then teleported home. Ahnassi has been packing for the move to Bal Isra. She got word that construction of the manor is complete. It seems as if everyone knows where I'm going but me.

_**Day 35: Aboard the Grytewake again**_

I truly feel like a pirate. I am writing tonight in the master's cabin of a fine deep water vessel, bound at my command for distant Tel Vos. A vessel long since scrubbed clean of the blood shed by her former crew when she was taken by force. Taken by me.

Months have passed since I delivered the Grytewake to Wadarkhu, the Khajiit smuggler of Gnaar Mok. In all that time I had not seen him, or the former slave Rabinna, or the cargo of ebony the Cammona Tong had sold to the Nords who bled out on these decks. But there is honor among thieves, and I was greeted like long lost family.

"Arvil Bren!" Rabinna shouted as I walked into the Dreugh-gigger's rest. She threw her paws around me and her tail wrapped around my leg. I noted a proprietary gleam in Wadarkhu's eye as I disengaged myself and shook his hand. Unsurprisingly his arm slipped around Rabinna's trim waist as she stepped back. She is certainly not the cowed and matted slave that she was when I first met her.

"I hope your travels have been on warm sands my good friend Arvil Bren," he said.

"Mostly," I said. "And you my good friend? No problems with the Cammona Tong I trust."

He almost purred. "They have kept a very low profile. There is a rumor that the Dark Brotherhood wiped them out, and another that it was the Redorans. No proof of either one, despite all efforts by house Hlaalu to get to the bottom of it."

"I assume you have been a good citizen and filled the void. Hla Oad is well supplied?"

"Very well supplied, very well indeed. The Grytewake has much greater range than my coaster, and routinely brings goods to the Bitter Coast from all the major cities of Vvardenfell. Of course, with the embargo we do not travel to the mainland," he added blandly.

"Of course not," I agreed with a wink. "Why, that would be smuggling." We could not keep it up, and dissolved into laughter.

"More seriously," he began when we had settled a bit and taken seats at the table, "I have yet to find a buyer who can handle so much ebony. It's still buried." I grinned. I truly am a pirate, buried treasure and all. "If you are in need I could give you cash for some of it I suppose."

"I am in need Wadarkhu, but not in need of cash, or ebony. In fact, if there is any sort of memorable event that I missed you could have the ebony as a gift to mark the occasion."

He looked shyly towards Rabinna, who was animatedly moving about the Rest chatting with members of Wadarkhu's crew. "You have given me Grytewake, and given Rabinna her freedom...I could not take your ebony, even as a gift."

"Come on Wadarkhu! You saved my life once as well, and without you what was I going to do with that ship, or a cargo of ebony? Haul it overland in my pack? I do need a favor though, a favor that you are ideally suited to provide."

And so I came to have a ship at my disposal. I couldn't talk Wadarkhu into accepting the ebony as a gift, but it will serve admirably as illicit trade goods to make the voyage profitable for the crew, and Wadarkhu is comfortable that with me aboard there should be little trouble with pirates. Other pirates, I should say. We will reach the docks of Vos early tomorrow.

_**Day 36: Trade terms**_

Again I will sleep in Telvanni territory in the cabin of a ship, but this time it rides a safe harbor instead of the rocky shores. The Grytewake is moored at the docks of Vos, an ancient farming village on Azura's Coast. Overlooking the village is an outpost built in a bygone age by an Imperial force. Master Aryon has taken over the great stone fortress. The thick stalks of the huge Telvanni mushroom twine through the archways and support the giant caps of Aryon's private chambers, accessible only through levitation. I made it as far as the antechamber.

One of the crew was first ashore, a Dunmer chosen by Wadarkhu for his diplomacy. In the hold, in addition to the ebony, we are laden with the typical products of the Bitter Coast. Our envoy made some small trades with the local farmers, and the keeper of the public house. He might have made a profit, but if he did it was consumed in slipping bribes to the Telvanni guards. He managed to keep them from searching our vessel, but certainly did not make fast friends of them. Early in the afternoon he secured a meeting with the commander of Aryon's guard, Turedus Talanian. I went ashore dressed appropriately for a merchant captain and levitated to the tower entrance.

Turedus Talanian is a veteran of the Imperial Legions and from his commanding presence it is clear that he was an officer in Cyrodiil, quite likely of substantial rank. How he came to be Aryon's champion, and de facto ruler of Vos is a mystery. I did not get to see Aryon. Apparently he is seldom seen, secreted deeper in the tower where his studies will not be interrupted by the minutiae of managing his holdings. It was clear that the only way I would ever see him was to work my way deep into the good graces of Turedus Talanian.

After an exchange of introductions, and a gift on my part of Cyrodiilan liquor, he dismissed the guards and we settled at a table in the upper dome of the antechamber. With the embargo the imported liquor has become very scarce, making it an effective bribe. Clearly he felt no need for the guards. The well worn pommel of the ebony broadsword at his waist demonstrated that he had been a stout field officer, not an insular general directing troops from the safety of a command pavilion.

I intended to use the rare brandy to broach the subject of our more valuable, but less legitimate, cargo. The commander had his own ideas, and I determined that it would be easiest to get into his good graces by helping him. He would have been confused had I not easily accepted his request. In the guise of a merchant trader I'm sure I seemed like the perfect man for the job. Now I have to figure out how to carry it off.

"I am a warrior," he said. "I have discipline, and I can maintain discipline. Aryon seldom has his feet on the ground, in more ways than one, and he counts on me to keep the troops and the farmers on track. Vos is not a wealthy village, but the folk are good hearted and hardy, and it is not a difficult task. The Ashlanders though; they are a problem for me." I nodded, polite and respectful. He is a military man, a commander; he did not have to talk with me, he was satisfied talking at me.

"They are unpredictable, and sneaky, and they seem as interested in raiding just to be raiding as they are in whatever loot they acquire. They have a permanent camp not far from here, and I've considered leading a strike force and wiping them out, but there are so many small bands scattered through the area that it might just cause more problems. Aryon insists that we can befriend them." The expression on his face made it clear what he thought of that.

"Is there some way I can be of service to you and Master Aryon?" I asked.

"You are a merchant," he said. "My men say that most of the goods you bring are from the swamps of the west coast, but some are from the Ashlands. Obviously you have experience with Ashlanders. The Zainab tribe of the Grazelands may be a bit different, but perhaps you could negotiate with them for us. If we could establish some sort of trade it would, hopefully, incline them toward leaving us alone."

"A sensible approach," I agreed. "I would certainly be willing to be your representative in this, but..."

"Go on. I know merchants, there is bound to be some cost in getting your help," he said.

"Not a cost necessarily. I would consider it a mutual opportunity. In addition to the agricultural products that my partners have been trading with the farmers and shopkeepers of your village we have access to certain luxury goods. Trading those goods is vital to the profit of our voyage, but certainly they are not accessible or useful to the common folk of the village. However, Master Aryon may well find them most useful in his research, or choose to have the raw material worked by an appropriate craftsman."

"So you would like to sell us these goods? Goods that you have not yet named I notice."

"I have heard of Aryon's museum of Dwemer artifacts, so I'm sure he has a somewhat...liberal view of Imperial trade laws." I looked at the bottle of brandy briefly. "Clearly your own views are just as important here, and with your Legion background I was thinking that my crew and I should just be moving on..."

"I am no longer with the Legion," he said. "You said raw materials. What do you have?"

So I told him about the ebony in our cargo, and also mentioned my own frequent access to Dwemer artifacts. He could possibly trade for the ebony on his own authority, but Dwemer artifacts will gain me the access that I need to Master Aryon. First though, I must open negotiations in some way with the Zainab tribe.

_**Day 37: Among the Zainab**_

The Zainab were no more welcoming than they were the last time I was here, but this time I could not just move on to the next Ashlander tribe. The Zainab are the ones who have been raiding around Vos, so the Zainab are the required target of my 'trade mission'. I was met at the edge of their encampment by a proud Zainab who never did bother to introduce himself.

"What do you want outlander?" he demanded.

I bit my tongue and tried a civil approach. "The question isn't what I want as much as it is what you want. The local House Dunmer would like to trade with your people."

"We need nothing from the soft ones from the houses. Their big buildings, their fancy clothes; these things mean nothing to us. So crawl back to your masters outlander, we have no need of you here."

So much for the civil approach. "Watch your words. I am a clanfriend of the Urshilaku. You can say what you like about the house Dunmer, but have a care when you speak to me of 'masters'."

"The Urshilaku call you clanfriend? No surprise, I suppose. That Cult of the Nerevarine that leads them has made them all collectively crazy. They have even called an outlander Nerevarine, if you can imagine!"

"Too far."

"Too far, what?"

"That was too far. I am clanfriend to the Urshilaku, accepted by the Ashkahn and the ancestors of the Ashkahn." I snapped my bow free and raised it high. "This is the Bone-biter, bow of Sul-Senipul, delivered to me by his ghost deep in the burial caverns. You Zainab are a proud and respected people, as are the Urshilaku. You will show respect for my clan as I show respect for yours, or we shall duel, and you shall die having dishonored yourself with your poor hospitality." Bone-biter glowed an angry red in my hand, and there was a chortling sound of disturbed ancestors echoing hollowly in the air.

My adversary slipped slowly from anger to sullen resignation. "My pardon, clanfriend and honored guest, if my words gave offense." He slinked away.

A nearby woman who had watched the exchange offered a tentative smile. "Our men are proud warriors clanfriend of the Urshilaku. They are good men, but not...graceful. He meant no harm."

"I understand. No harm done. I know it is strange having a clanfriend arrive representing the house Dunmer."

"The soft ones," she said with a laugh. "I heard. Our men would never admit any need that the Telvanni could fill. They would rather drag themselves back to the wise woman every time they are sick, but the bottled magics of the Telvanni would be very useful to us clanfriend, and our women would gladly trade for them. Once they are in our hands the men will be happy to have them."

I had the information I needed and considered a hasty retreat, but it was too late. "Now you are a clanfriend?" roared a voice that I recognized as the Ashkhan, Kaushad.

"Yes, I am, a clanfriend of the Urshilaku" I said, showing sufficient deference to his rank but pointing out that it was not his place to pass judgment on the actions of another tribe's Ashkahn.

"Sul-Matuul does strange things, but he is wise, and that is the Bone-biter. Sul-Matuul sent you to be judged by his ancestors, and you passed, I assume."

"I did," I said simply.

"I would have you as friend to our clan then outlander, if you pass my test as well."

Kaushad proposed a more pragmatic challenge, or perhaps he assumes that all the ancestors will see things the same way so there would be no point in sending me to his. In any event it falls to me to contend with a vampire that has taken over a nearby tomb. If I succeed he will give his permission for the women to trade with Aryon.

I was concerned that the crew would be getting restless. Although I expected to be using Grytewake as a command center I did not expect to spend another night tied to the docks of Vos. They have done well with the trading though, and in my absence Turedus Talanian made a substantial purchase of ebony. They will be able to resist the song of the sea for another night at least.

_**Day 38: Master Aryon of the Telvanni**_

Turedus Talanian, the captain of Aryon's guard, was satisfied with his ebony purchase. I expect to see him wearing the ebony plate mail of a lord once the artisans of Vos have had time to work the material. Being in the good graces of the rogue Imperial would be very helpful, but it would not get me in to see Aryon. Protecting the mage lord from interruption is his captain's first duty. Fortunately I had the ideal trade goods for Aryon as well.

I took a much more leisurely tour through Aryon's museum of Dwemer artifacts. Last time I raced through, trying to look interested while staying ahead of my pursuers. This time I was an honored guest of the captain of the guard. Certainly a different experience and I savored the break from my journey. A break from my journey, but my objectives never waver.

We stood in front of the prize of Aryon's collection, a fully functional steam centurion. "Have you ever fought one of these?" Turedus asked.

"I've explored a few Dwemer ruins," I said with a grin. "I imagine that working for Aryon has given you a few opportunities as well."

"A few," he said with a nod. "Aryon's fascination with the Dwemer goes back centuries before I was born though. It's hard to find anything new to add to his collection."

"I have something," I said.

He laughed. "Your ship held a surprising amount of ebony, and you are by no means a typical trader, but I cannot imagine what you could add to this." He swept his hand in a gesture that took in the entire room, with its tables laden with gleaming Dwemer artifacts, from ordinary housewares to the most exotic weaponry.

"I could," I said confidently, "but there would have to be some arrangements made regarding access to the museum."

"Access for who?" he asked.

I looked at him with a most serious expression. "Turedus, you are a good soldier, and I think in almost all matters you can speak for Aryon, probably with even greater authority than his mouth in the council chamber of Sadrith Mora. But this would be something I would have to hear from Aryon himself, and even then it would be hard to accept as truth from a Telvanni mage lord."

His eyes narrowed. "Access for who?" he asked again.

"I have something that scholars from all over Tamriel want. There are those who believe it belongs in the Arcane University in Cyrodiil, but I've resisted their demands. I think that things Dwemer should remain in Vvardenfell, and the current embargo has given me a good excuse. This collection would be a fine setting for scholars, as well as anyone with a sense of history, and I'd be happy to make a donation; but many scholars would not be welcome here."

Realization dawned on his face. "The Imperial Mage's Guild," he said. "You are more than a simple trader."

I nodded agreement.

"A wealthy Breton mage, connections with the Ashlanders..."

I decided to jump ahead before he reached the conclusion. "Yes, Turedus, I am Arvil Bren, Archmage of the Vvardenfell Mage's Guild."

His eyes opened wide and his hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but then dropped away.

"Thank you for not drawing that blade. I'd hate to see this fine museum reduced to a battlefield, and I would rather remain friends even when we pass through that door. I would also rather have the guild here in Vvardenfell allied more with House Telvanni, and less with the distant council in Cyrodiil. War is coming from Red Mountain Turedus, and those of us who are here on these shores will need each other far more than we need the empire."

He stood staring mutely.

"As I said Turedus, I think I need to speak directly to Aryon. You can tell him as much as you want about who I am, and you can count on my guarantee that I mean him no harm. He is going to know that I am no simple trader when you tell him about the books I am offering."

"Books?"

I said the three titles slowly. "Divine Metaphysics, The Egg of Time, Hanging Garden. The books used to solve the riddle of the Dwemer's disappearance. Artifacts that can never be duplicated."

I returned to the ship to wait. It did not take long. The guard led me back to the museum.

"You told my captain that you would not like to see my museum become a battlefield Archmage. I'm sure you know that I would not like that either, so this seemed a good place to meet. I am Aryon," said the extravagantly robed Dunmer as I was escorted respectfully in.

The negotiations were long, but successful. Only Aryon's personal retainers were in attendance. Many things he agreed to could be considered treason against House Telvanni, so the house guard could not be allowed to hear. I was glad to be alone myself. Nearly every word that came out of my mouth would be considered treason by the grand council of mages in Cyrodiil.

When Aryon is the Archmagister of House Telvanni they will be allied with the independent mages guild of Vvardenfell. The die is cast.

_**Day 39: Return voyage**_

I was a bit surprised when I awoke this morning to find the Grytewake still moored. After yesterday's long negotiations I had retired to the master's cabin expecting the crew to set sail, but wiser heads prevailed. The dangerous waters of Azura's coast are best navigated in daylight, and there was concern that the night would catch us before we reached the open sea.

So fate, or Azura, had me at the rail as we maneuvered through the narrow passages between rocky islands that connect Vos to the sea. Narrow passages that also provide access to Tel Mora, the tower of Mistress Dratha. A tower where I would apparently be completely unwelcome.

We had not gone far when someone spotted a small boat adrift on the smooth channel waters. We got close enough that a Khajit sailor aloft in the rigging could see down into the tiny craft. He shouted immediately. Lying unconscious between the thwarts was a Dunmer woman. I cast a water walking spell and leapt over the rail with a line. As the crew pulled us alongside I tried to revive the bedraggled occupant, who was burning with fever and mumbling incoherently.

Though I am by no means the healer that Sharn is, I'm not incapable. Once the woman was safely aboard and we were again underway I began my work. Swamp fever is common among fisherfolk; frequently contracted from infected mudcrabs. A simple curative spell seemed to break the fever, and my patient drifted into a more peaceful slumber.

When she awoke I found out that her name is Lette, and she is indeed a common fisherwoman from Tel Mora. She had set out for Vos in hopes of finding treatment for her fever. She had not intended to end up on a ship rounding the northern coasts of Sheogorad. I asked why she had had to leave Tel Mora, thinking that there would surely be restoratives available in any Telvanni stronghold.

"No," she said, "we have none there. Mistress Dratha does not concern herself much with restorative magicks, and she has long since driven out the Temple."

I knew the Telvanni were not generally devout followers of Temple doctrine, but that surprised me. As I continued to administer healing I questioned this unusual course.

"The Temple would not agree to never send men to Tel Mora, so she told them not to send anyone, and refused them any space," she explained. I was about to explore further when a sailor came into the cabin and accidentally changed the entire direction of the conversation. He called me by name.

"Arvil?" my guest said. "Arvil Bren? A Breton mage! You must be Arvil Bren!"

How could my name raise such alarm? I could not imagine that the trials of the Mage's guild and House Telvanni would be under discussion on the lowest waterfronts. Apparently I was wrong, at least as far as the waterfront of Tel Mora is concerned.

"You are the manling that is coming to destroy us all?" she said with wonder in her voice. "Why are you helping me?"

"I'm not coming to destroy anyone," I said. "Where did you get an idea like that?"

"Mistress Dratha has everyone watching for you. She says you attacked the council chambers in Sadrith Mora and you are coming to destroy us. The guards in Tel Mora are under orders to kill any Breton manling on sight."

We docked in Gnisis and I turned Bitte over to the Temple for recuperation, then went to see Baladas.

"Well, at least you didn't pull up to the docks of Tel Mora playing the trader role," he said with a laugh. "Probably would have had to blow up the entire dock to get away, and lost the Grytewake in the process. Dratha is quite insane in her hatred of men, and I wouldn't doubt that every one of her man hating minions is just hoping some hapless Breton will show up so they can annihilate him."

"How do I approach her then?" I asked.

"Arvil, if you want to be Hortator of the Telvanni you are eventually going to have to face the realities of House Telvanni. You aren't going to even ask for her vote, since you most certainly aren't going to get it. You just need to kill her and move on."

_**Day 40: Vampire hunter**_

I have returned to Telvanni territory; this time openly. On the silt strider from Gnisis to Ald-ruhn I reviewed the plan that Baladas and I have agreed upon. I am doing my part, and he is on his way here to do his. I do not look forward to the killing that will be required, but it is the Telvanni way and I could see no way to avoid it.

The Telvanni do not like me, and they are not trying to disguise that fact. Walking openly through Sadrith Mora I was tense and on my guard. The house guards either looked away, or glared defiantly through the visors of their cephalopod helms. I renewed my papers. The petty functionary, while filling out the 'purpose of visit' section, had the temerity to say "overthrowing the house?" I would have laughed, but the two glowering guards were clearly not amused.

"No. I'm actually visiting an Ashlander camp. Apparently there is a problem with a vampire. Their traditions don't allow for them to appeal to the house Dunmer for assistance, but as mages for hire my guild may be acceptable, so I am here to negotiate. A simple transaction, nothing more."

One of the guards grated, "Your 'address' to the council has not been forgotten, outlander."

"I'm sure you know that I've spoken to your Archmagister, and that matter is now in his hands. I am waiting for his response, and I assume the Telvanni guard will wait also. Or do you want to take some personal responsibility in the matter?" I kept any tone of active threat out of my voice, but my meaning was obvious. His partner put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"We follow orders, outlander," said the cooler headed guard. "The Archmagister has not decided your fate. Just be aware that it is his decision, and if you choose to spend time in Telvanni territory your very life is in his hands. Should he order your death we would gladly carry it out."

I smiled. "Well, let us hope no such order comes along. I don't know who might end up being carried out, but I'm in no hurry to find out." I picked up my completed papers. "Good day, gentlemen."

I left Sadrith Mora behind, gladly. In the open grazelands I could relax somewhat. Not that there are no dangerous creatures to contend with, but a wary eye scanning ahead makes them avoidable. The snares and affairs of men and elves are far more subtle.

As the sun set the shadow of Red Mountain flooded the grazelands. I made camp atop a low roll of a hill. I have not yet found the Nerano tomb, but I should be close. Not a comforting thought, knowing that the tomb I seek has become home to a vampire. There is no point to continuing the search through the night, but I shall not be resting. The wild beasts will avoid my campfire, but if Calvario is on the hunt it will likely draw him to me. If he finds me I will be ready. If he doesn't, in the morning I will find him.

I hope my escorts are being cautious as well. Though they have stayed out of sight I'm sure they are out there. Even the stoutest of Telvanni guards will be wary out here among the Ashlanders. Of course being assigned to follow the Archmage of the guild, given my reputation, should keep them on their toes anyway, but I did my best to stress that this is a vampire hunt. Since I won't be sleeping I can listen for their screams.

_**Day 41: On their guard**_

The sun rose on the silent grazelands. The mist over the distant sea broke the dawnlight into streamers of pink, purple, and gold. Whatever comes of the fate that brought me here, I will always be thankful that it brought me to Morrowind. As it often does, the vista of the sunrise took my breath away. The three Telvanni guards welcomed the day, though their gratitude had nothing to do with the beauty of the sunrise.

"Finally," said one of them, a pretty female Dunmer with a halo of windswept red hair framing her face, "I thought I would freeze before the sun came up. Does the outlander still have his fire blazing?"

The one who had the watch was peering intently through a gap in the tall grass. "He really built it up a couple hours ago, but it's dying down now. I think he must be asleep."

The third, who crouched uncomfortably in the grass, still had his cephalopod helm pulled down, obsuring his face. His voice was tight, and tired. He had not slept during his time off watch, nor even lain down. "If he is truly hunting a vampire he has not slept, unless he is a fool. And he is no fool."

The one on watch, who had put on only the breastplate of his bonemold armor, flexed his brawny arms. "Vampires?" he snorted. "Is that why you've not slept?"

"You didn't sleep at all?" the girl asked. "You're going to be miserable today."

"City folk," the third grunted through his mask. "This plain crawls with the Zainab, the most unpredictable of tribes. Our quarry is not just any outlander, we're following one of the most dangerous men on Vvardenfell. And he says there is a vampire prowling the area."

"Benval was an Ashlander Cellia. He can go days without sleep." The watchman again flexed his arms. "Far be it from him to trust us to keep watch," he concluded.

Benval chuckled. "There's a saying in the Ashlands Gilvath; how many vampires can slip invisibly into your camp in the night?"

The pretty girl, Cellia, waited a moment, then said "Well? How many?"

"As many as want to," grunted the former Ashlander.

"Well, none got past me," said the one called Gilvath, "but I suppose one might have gotten the outlander. I don't see any stirring in his camp. We are going to have to slip closer. Do you think he would leave his fire burning like that and take off to get ahead of us?"

"No," said Benval. "He is a clanfriend. If he went far he would have put out the fire."

"I wish we had had a fire," said Cellia. "I had no idea nights were so cold out here in the grazelands."

"Cold is good for survaillance," said Gilvath with another flex. "Helps me keep alert. Being a 'city elf' I don't have that natural wariness I suppose." He grinned at Benval. The daylight washed completely over the horizon, paling the dwindling campfire in the distance. "Still no stirring. I think we need to get over there. I know you can track him Benval, but if he levitates he'll leave no tracks, and we have to stay close enough to know if he teleports or the council would have us out here searching forever, or at least until he is spotted somewhere else."

"On a search instead of survaillance at least we could have a fire," said the girl. "He has to know he's being watched anyway. I'm so stiff I can barely get my armor on, and I can't even stand up and stretch properly since he might see me."

"Might as well, Cellia. No doubt he knows we're watching. Fair bet he knows where we are."

"Ashlander magic, Benval?" she asked. "How would he know?"

"From the way he picked his campsite." He pointed. "He trailed past this hollow right over there, then set his camp on that hilltop." He swung his arm in a short arc. "Perfect distance, and perfect sightline. Anyone on his trail would be right about there when they saw he was making camp, and this hollow is the natural place to get off his trail and watch him. Really the only place."

"So you think he planned our site when he picked his?" said Gilvath. "You give him a lot of credit."

"The Ashlanders don't make clanfriends lightly, especially with an outlander. I think it would be foolish to underestimate him in the wilderness, even if all we are supposed to do is watch him."

The chameleon spell isn't invisibility. It bends light around the spellcaster, so that when you look at them you see a slightly distorted view of whatever is behind them. My amulet of shadows releases a very powerful chameleon spell, so the distortion is minimal, but not completely beyond notice. As the daylight grew the chances of being detected grew also, particularly by the wary guard from the ashlands. It was on its last charge anyway.

"No, they don't make clanfriends lightly," I said as the spell dissipated in a shimmer of magicka around my comfortably seated form.

The two city elves scrambled for weapons. "Hold!" said Benval. "If he wanted us dead, we would be." He continued to crouch, stock still. "We're only here to watch him, not fight him, don't let embarassment override your orders."

"A show of cleverness outlander," sneered Gilvath.

"Perhaps," I said. "Mostly I just didn't want to have to fight any more vampires than I already have to, and I've heard that same saying among the Ashlanders. It would not serve me well if Calvario got the three of you in the night. Besides, Morrowind will need all of our stalwart guards in the days to come."

"Calvario," said Cellia. "You know the vampire's name? You really are here just to fight a vampire."

"Yes," I said. "I'm not here to dispute with the Telvanni. I think we can all agree that a blood vampire is an abomination that merits a little cooperation. I hope your magelords will agree that the ash vampires of house Dagoth call for even more cooperation, but that is for them to decide in their towers. Out here in the grazelands it's just us."

"It's not our job to fight your vampire," said Gilvath.

"I wouldn't want you to," I said. "When I enter the tomb I intend to rain destruction on anything that moves, and I'd rather not have to sort enemies from allies."

"So why are you talking to us? Why slip into our camp?" asked Cellia.

"Well, since we both know you are going to be following me I don't see any reason for you to sacrifice comfort for stealth, and I thought you might want a hot breakfast before we take up the trail." I rose slowly to my feet. "Benval, you were an Ashlander, so I'll make this formal. You are welcome to the hospitality of my hearth, such as it is."

For the first time he pushed back his helm. "Thank you clanfriend," he said gravely. "I accept." He turned to his companions. "It will be a lot easier to track him today."

Over a breakfast of kwama eggs and saltrice I reluctantly recounted my experiences with the vampires of Clan Aundae. Even the hardened guards shuddered at my description of the plight of their cattle. "I don't know if Calvario will be that well established, but if he has cattle I will be leaving it to you to get them back to the city and cared for. I'll be teleporting on my way at that point, so your mission will be complete."

Strangely enough, the arrogant Gilvath seemed the most shaken by my story. "We will care for them," he promised quietly.

As it turned out, Calvario was not living the horrific parody of normal society that I found in the halls of the Aundae queen. He was a vile predator, sheltering from the sunlight in a tomb littered with the rotting corpses of bandits who had chosen the wrong tomb as a hideout. I exterminated him as I would a diseased rat cowering in a basement.

When I emerged from the tomb my escort was waiting. "It's a mess in there," I said. "No prisoners, no cattle, just the dead. Some sort of bandit activity; if you feel a need to investigate. I'm going home, so your job is done."

"Why would you come all the way out here to do this?" Cellia asked. "You are a Breton. Why would you do such a thing for the Zainab? They're practically savages."

"But not savage," I said. "They are people; mostly good people. It's just that their way of life isn't your way. Truthfully, I have my differences with the ways of your magelords also, but those are just differences among people. A vampire is a monster, and so is Dagoth Ur. Whatever our differences, sometimes people all have to end up on the same side, or the monsters win."

Ultimately, getting the council to call me Hortator will not be enough to make me the Hortator. I can't say for sure, but I think at least three of the Telvanni guard will be willing to accept an order to follow me. Hopefully from that seed something will grow.

_**Day 42: Distant contact**_

It was nice to wake up at home, especially with a feeling that I had nothing in particular to be done right away. I lay curled up with Ahnassi and considered: I need to return to the Zainab camp and report to Kashaud, but right now I cannot be out of communication with Sadrith Mora. By our timetable, Baladas should have arrived there today, and may have gotten in to address the mouths at the council chamber. I puttered around my armory until noon, but then had to get on my way. I had to be at a guild hall.

I took a leisurely stroll towards Balmora, thinking that I could check in with Ranis, then teleport to Ald-ruhn where I have my most comfortable room. Unfortunately, I am to be allowed no relaxation. As I walked up the major thoroughfare of the business district in Balmora the whispers of Moon and Star rose to a roar, and I found myself walking past the guild hall, and drawn up the hill to the Hlaalu council hall.

Nileno Dorvayn, the council's chief steward, agreed to see me even though I had no appointment. House Hlaalu is, to be polite, pragmatic. Being more direct, the fact that I have become one of the wealthier citizens of Vvardenfell pretty well assured that any possibility of doing business with me would get me an audience. I avoided any commitments to invest in their ventures without direct conversation with the council members themselves, then left with directions and letters of introduction.

The familiar name of Crassius Curio stood out. Wealth has the loudest voice in House Hlaalu, and that is the only thing I could think of that had gotten the Imperial a seat on their council. I knew from experience that his abilities as a playwright did not bring great honor to the house. The Lusty Argonian Maid was a representative sample of his poor writing, and his lifestyle. House Hlaalu is, as I said, pragmatic. They have no concern for honor.

Instead of teleporting to Ald-ruhn I ended up here in Vivec, where any possible comforts of my rooms are overwhelmed by the responsibilities of my office. I sent a messenger to the Hlaalu compound, where Curio keeps an extravagant manor on the plaza level. I waded into an accumulation of reports that made it a relief when the messenger returned with an appointment for me to see Curio. Almost made it a relief anyway. He is revolting. Why the Hlaalu accept him is hard to fathom, but why he came to Vvardenfell is easy to explain. Nowhere else in the empire would he be able to keep slaves, and even in the more civilized parts of Morrowind he would not be able to use them the way he does.

The only way I could think to approach the perverted councilor was to question what would become of him if the empire should forsake the eastern provinces. House Hlaalu's acceptance of outlanders has made them a clear favorite of Imperial politicians, but would he have any value to them in an independent Morrowind?

Apparently, he would. His fortune, and the trading company that produced it, are outside of Morrowind. Access to that keeps him vital to his house. But fortune smiles, or possibly Azura's hand gave a push to events. Curio is not as comfortable in his security as he could be...not as secure as he would be if the council were not dominated by Orvas Dren. There is no way for the foppish Curio to break Dren's hold, but if I find a way to do that I will be able to get his support when I approach the council about becoming the Hortator. With Dren out of the way the pragmatic Hlaalu council could probably be simply bought.

A messenger arrived late. Baladas got word to Skink that he will be seeing the council tomorrow. He is requesting a seat on the council. Aryon will support him. Dratha will oppose him; just because he is a man if for no other reason. Without an agreement among the rest of the council it is doubtful that Gothren will come to a decision, and the Telvanni council will end up with another undecided issue on their table. An undecided issue that can provide very useful cover.

House Hlaalu, House Telvanni, the Zainab tribe; pursuit of control of three factions at once has left my mind a whirling jumble. At least the voice of the ring is quiet. Perhaps it is satisfied.

_**Day 43: Clandestine meeting**_

I was awakened before dawn by the hiss of an Argonian. "Archmage, we bring you a message from Baladas Demnevanni," said Skink-in-trees-shade as soon as I was fully awake. "I have been following his progress and checking in with him at his rooms." There was tremendous modesty in that statement. Skink is my guild steward in Sadrith Mora. Like all the lizard-men of Argonia he is blindingly fast, and he is a master of illusion magic, but to slip around the Telvanni capital undetected is an incredible feat. Even their lowest retainers are no strangers to spellcraft.

"How is he doing?"

"The council is deadlocked, as expected. Actually much more quickly than expected. The mouths returned from their masters without delay."

"That doesn't sound like Gothren," I mused.

Skink let out the dry hiss that passes for laughter from an Argonian. "Well, his answer was 'I don't know', so it is not really out of character. Baladas got the full range of responses. Aryon is in favor of giving him a seat on the council, of course, and Dratha is opposed. Therana said she would not support him, but did not say no outright. Master Neloth has no opposition, but withheld an outright yes. Of course, Gothren is right in the middle, and another undecided issue goes into the record."

"I suppose we are fortunate that they don't ever get anything done."

"Yes. This one has been the subject of a possible arrest order for seventeen years, but they have never reached a consensus." Again the dry hiss. I had to admire Skink's cool. Seventeen years with the unpredictable Telvanni considering his arrest and only the useless Archmage Trebonius at his back, and his steady hand had never wavered on the helm of the most dangerous posting in the guild. I suppose my expression revealed my thoughts, or perhaps their almost 'collective' consciousness gives the Argonians more insight into the minds around them. "We are glad you came along before they made a decision Archmage."

"Me too, Skink. It would be hard to hold Sadrith Mora without you." I continued quickly past the slightly embarrassing moment of mutual admiration. "What does Baladas have to say?"

"He requests your presence in Sadrith Mora. He will be meeting with Neloth. He has arranged a signal with us, and would like you to join that meeting once he has prepared the master of Tel Naga. Neloth is the elder of the council. If Baladas can gain his active support it should sway the madwoman Therana." The reptilian eyes narrowed to slits. "Archmage, Dratha will never withdraw her opposition, and Baladas has not told us of any plans for dealing with her. It makes us wonder if he is really trying to join the council, or merely acting as their agent in some plot."

I knew Baladas' plan for Dratha, but I asked anyway, "What sort of plot are you worried about Skink?"

"Archmage, it may be dangerous walking into Tel Naga, even for you. Baladas may be maneuvering you into a trap."

I considered Skink's concern as I loitered around the guild hall in Sadrith Mora. On the one hand, the self interest of Baladas and his desire for a council seat fit nicely, as did Aryon's angling for the council chair, and they both seemed to take the threat from Red Mountain very seriously. On the other, they are Telvanni, and I am the Archmage of Vvardenfell. A plot against me was certainly a possibility. When the signal came I slipped into Tel Naga with every nerve ending screamingly alert.

If it is a plot against me, today was not the day to spring the trap. Neloth was cordial, in a slightly condescending way that suited his years. It was obvious that Baladas had been slightly out maneuvered. I'm sure he had intended to have at least a moment in private to brief me on where things stood with the elder, but he was still in Neloth's study when I was ushered in. The look he gave me held only half his usual confidence, and conveyed no useful information. "Welcome to my home," said Neloth. "I understand you know my other guest?"

"Yes," I said, guessing wildly at how much Baladas had revealed about how well we knew each other. "I had the benefit of his scholarship when I was confronting the mystery of the Dwemer."

Neloth raised an eyebrow, inviting me to add any more details, but I declined, turning to more current issues; issues that could be considered mine alone if Baladas had not mentioned them beforehand and would not reveal my own part in Aryon's scheme. "The mystery of the Dwemer has led me to confront the current situation with Red Mountain. That is why I am here."

"You want a Telvanni council that will support you in your confrontation with this situation, which is why young Baladas has brought you to me. He has you convinced that a council with him on it would serve you better than it does without." I could tell from Baladas' expression that he had been read much more openly by Neloth than he had thought. For my part I was trying to get my mind around the idea of referring to Baladas as 'young'. "So tell me Breton, what do you think of this Red Mountain situation?"

"I think that if we in Vvardenfell do not all put our differences aside and stand against Dagoth Ur we are lost, and I've committed the guild here to that course."

"Dagoth Ur?" The ancient wizard considered for a moment, then abruptly changed tacks. "What of your Imperial masters Archmage? How do they stand on you throwing in your lot with the locals?"

"They don't," I said honestly. "I have not openly broken with them. They do not know the situation, so they have not taken a position, so I have not yet had to defy them. If and when that time comes I shall not hesitate, but I hope they will see the necessity of my position. In the long run they may consider it safe to abandon Vvardenfell, counting on the sea as the Tribunal has counted on the ghostfence, but I will try to convince them otherwise. If I cannot then the mages of Vvardenfell will act independently.

"Upstarts. You, the council in Cyrodiil, your Breton wizards; all upstarts, really. The Telvanni are the true 'mages of Vvardenfell', but I shall let that pass." He smiled graciously. "You at least have the good sense to have Dunmer among your lieutenants and advisors. Ranis Athrys going over to the guild seemed such a waste at the time, but a few centuries does change ones perspective."

"She has been invaluable to the guild, and to me personally."

"No doubt. The adroit elimination of Trebonius had her mark all over it. Not that you are not clever yourself," he added with another smile. "It is a serious question, who is using who?" He looked back and forth, from Baladas to me. "What is it you need from the council of the Telvanni, Arvil Bren? What promise has Baladas extended you? For him to get a seat on the council is going to require extraordinary measures. You are not going to be part of that without something extraordinary in return."

"I have not promised him anything that I don't believe is necessary for the safety of our house anyway Master Neloth," said Baladas.

"The safety of our house?"

"Dagoth Ur will not spare the Telvanni," I offered, and Baladas nodded agreement.

Neloth shook his head briefly, with his eyes shut, then smiled. "Baladas, our Breton friend here may be overcome by the shadows that haunt Red Mountain. Like most mortal men he thinks, naturally, that all events will come to fruition during that pitiful blink that he calls a lifetime. But you, you are Dunmer. You know Dagoth Ur is buried millennia in the past. Whatever stirrings have beset us from Red Mountain are, in the real scope of things, inconsequential."

"I must disagree Master Neloth," Baladas said quietly. "I have settled in Redoran territory, where Telvanni magick does not stand against the mountain. The Ashlands are sorely pressed by the blight, and the threat from the mountain is not inconsequential. I would have agreed that Dagoth Ur himself was not at the center of it, had the Redorans not called Arvil Bren Hortator, but they have."

Neloth laughed outright. "And because the honorable warriors of House Redoran named a spear toting wizard Hortator you think Dagoth Ur is stirring, and we should call him Hortator as well? You think the Redorans are qualified to recognize Dagoth Ur? Perhaps they would, _if_ he marched his ash vampires through the streets of Ald-ruhn."

"The Redorans didn't recognize Dagoth Ur, Master Neloth. They recognized me." I drew my hand from my pouch and raised my clenched fist. Moon and Star bathed the room in other worldly light. Neloth's red eyes flew wide. "The Telvanni council will call me Hortator," continued the voice I hardly knew was my own. "I need your power on that council this time Neloth. This time you are not too young."

"Nerevar," he gasped. I dropped Moon and Star into my pouch. We stood silently for a long time. "The return of Nerevar is the proof. Dagoth Ur is indeed stirring beneath the mountain." He looked at me with shock completely etching his lined face. "An outlander." He turned. "You are wise enough to be on the council Baladas. Had you told me Nerevar came to you as an outlander I'd have burned you to a cinder."

"It is a shock, Master, but once the shock has passed the need is clear. We must have a council that will call him Hortator. There are reasons that I want to be on the council, but this is the reason that I must be."

"Dratha will never submit," said Neloth.

"Then Dratha must die," Baladas said.

"Yes. I suppose it is time," Neloth said with a trace of sadness.

I returned with Baladas to his rooms at the council hall, walking invisibly at his side and ducking quickly through the doors that he opened.

"He actually knew Nerevar," I said in awe.

"Yes," Baladas replied simply.

"Breton master wizards live a long time," I said.

"Harnessing magicka prolongs their flesh," he said. "You are no apprentice. You know that. It works the same way for us."

"But you live so long already!" It made sense. A normal Breton lifespan of a hundred years could extend to nearly a millennium. The Dunmer could quite naturally live a millennium, or close to it. It could extend... "How long does a Telvanni magelord live, Baladas?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Until someone kills them I suppose," he said. "I don't recall any dying otherwise."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Day 44: Concluding business**_

Ahnassi is very much amused with my comings and goings, but she is looking forward to leaving the house in Pelagiad. I've received word that the manor section is complete at Bal Isra, but I'd like to get a barracks built and staffed with guards before I move her there. In the meantime she is happy that my current adventures have allowed for me to be home nights, at least the last couple. Today I traveled openly again to Telvanni territory, so I'll be staying here overnight in Tel Vos. The guest quarters Aryon has provided are unique, to say the least. It is interesting being on the inside of Telvanni intrigues.

I arrived in Sadrith Mora and filed my papers for my trip to Vos. As I was carrying the priceless books that the guild is donating to Aryon's museum it made perfect sense that I should have an escort, but I think the guard captain was somewhat surprised when I accepted readily. I was pleased to see the burly Gilvath again, and used the time hiking through the grazelands to befriend the rest of the contingent. Having Gilvath's account of the hunt for Calvario got me off on the right foot, despite the inherent distrust they have for the guild.

Neloth made sure I would be well guarded for more than one reason, and when all the ceremonies were complete I was shown to this room and the guards settled their schedule for watching my door. Between Aryon's regular garrison and the escorts from Sadrith Mora there will be no doubt that the visiting Archmage slept securely through the night.

Once the great tower had settled down somewhat the bookcase swung silently inward. Aryon floated into the room and settled to the floor. "Take careful note of the outer latch Archmage. This wall faces away from any watchtowers, but you will still not want to be hanging there searching for it."

"No problem Aryon," I replied. "I have more than enough chameleon magic. Even if someone looks up they won't notice me."

He swung the secret access shut. "Just make sure no one is looking when the portal in the side of the tower pops open." He pressed on a series of decorations carved into the edge of the bottom shelf, and the panel opened a small slit along the bottom. "You can look through here to make sure no one is observing, then press here to open the door."

"Perfect. I won't be seen. Not here at least."

He glanced at the blackened chain mesh of the Dark Brotherhood armor laid out on the bed. "Scum, all of them."

"Yes," I said. "They lack the honor of the Morag Tong, but the rules of the Tong would prevent Baladas from hiring them for the task."

"They have not been active in Vvardenfell for some time."

"No," I replied. "Their base in Mournhold encountered...problems, from what I understand. But no one believes that the Night Mother has gone out of business completely."

"A Telvanni councilor would present a most challenging target for the Dark Brotherhood, or the Morag Tong for that matter."

"They would certainly send their best," I agreed. "Let us hope they are good enough."

_**Day 45: Fly on the wall**_

I have now seen the operation of the Telvanni council from a closer perspective than any outsider could have ever expected. It is amazing how efficiently they responded once the stakes were high enough, since it seemed they were organized specifically to get nothing done. I spent the day tagging along, and keeping out of the way. I'm sure the majority of Telvanni would wonder that the Archmage should be allowed so close to the process, but I clearly have allies now.

The day started when I was awakened by the tremendous commotion in the hall outside my room. I opened the door to find guards, who had been on watch keeping an eye on my door, in animated conversation with another breathless guard who had obviously raced to be first to tell them the news. Probably raced to be first to tell anyone the news. I'm sure the scene outside my door was being played all over Tel Vos.

"Dead; her and a bunch of her retainers. The main tower was a bloodbath." That was the first thing I heard.

"Unbelievable!" another guard answered. "A magelord! A member of the council! Killed in her own tower? Can't be. Who would do such a thing?" The questioner turned eyes to me, standing in the doorway in a sleeping robe. "The Archmage of the guild seems to be trying to get on the good side of the council, and the great houses have been at peace. More at peace than usual anyway."

The breathless bearer of the bad news had regained their wind, and wanted to regain the attention. "One of the Tel Mora guards saw a Dark Brotherhood assassin fly from the high tower balcony."

The rest pounced avidly on this new detail. "Dark Brotherhood!"

"Terrible business!"

"They have no honor! Must be House Hlaalu behind it!"

I risked intruding a question. "What happened?" Our source gleefully restarted his report as the crowd fell to listening a second time, no doubt hoping to seize on some fresh tidbit.

"Mistress Dratha, in Tel Mora, has been killed! Paralyzed and hacked to pieces, along with many of her favorites."

"Paralyzed?" came a voice from the crowd. Apparently that had not been included in the first accounting.

"Yes, paralyzed. The guards who found her could tell by the way she fell. The Dark Brotherhood do use jinkblades, you know, with paralysis spells enchanted into them," the source confided, as if he had some secret knowledge of the assassin's guild.

I listened for a bit, but could see there were no real details coming. The guard who had raced up the tower had very little information, and was holding forth on the same points in order to stay at the focus of attention. I retreated quickly to my room and got dressed for the day.

In Aryon's chamber a somewhat more disheveled guard was giving a similar report, though hers was more of a first hand account. She had been dispatched from nearby Tel Mora with the news, and had no doubt touched off the wildfire of rumors as soon as her feet touched the dock. The only significant detail that she had to add to the story was that the speculation about paralysis did not come from some obscure analysis of the position of the fallen bodies, but from an enchanted shortsword left buried to the hilt in the chest of one of Dratha's retainers.

Her description of a flexible but unbreakably hardened, thin and springy blade was unmistakable, but unrecognized by many of those present. "Adamantium," I suggested quietly.

"Quite possible," said Turedus Talanian, the Cyrodiilian captain of Aryon's guard. "It's rare, but not really that hard to find on the mainland. Hardly ever see any on Vvardenfell though. Any other weapons left behind?" he asked.

"A dart. Ebony," came the answer.

"Practically a trademark of the Dark Brotherhood," said the captain. "I'd say there's little doubt Master Aryon. Someone hired the Dark Brotherhood to kill at least one council member. I put out an immediate order to tighten security, and I'm going to tighten it even further. The brothers of darkness are not to be trifled with."

"Tighten security as you wish," said Aryon, "but tighten it at the docks as well, and ready my ship. We must sail for Sadrith Mora."

I might have showed surprise if anyone had been paying attention to me. There are offices for all of the council members in the capital, but for them to actually be found there is unheard of. It was the first sign of the hectic day ahead. I accepted Aryon's offer and rode with him to Sadrith Mora, which was buzzing with activity by the time we arrived. The discussions were all carried out by the mouths, and I'm sure that the council members did very little actual meeting, but with them close by the mouths could get their responses much more quickly than usual.

By the time the madwoman Therana had arrived from her more distant stronghold the mouths had concluded discussion, and shortly after she swept into the council building Baladas was approved to fill the vacant seat. Rumors ran rampant that he had hired outlander assassins to create that vacancy, but among the Telvanni such suspicions were mostly well regarded.

Certainly no one seemed inclined to condemn him for it if it was indeed true. In fact the alacrity with which the remaining council members approved him was taken as an indication that it was true, and that none of them wanted to be seen as impeding his progress. Personally, I suspect that explains why Dratha's mouth made a hasty exit rather than pressing a possible claim to her seat.

Late in the evening, as I was having a final conference with Skink at the guild hall, checking preparations to respond to any turmoil the situation might cause, a visitor arrived. "Begging your pardon, Archmage," Turedus Talanian said as he entered. " I know the hour is late, but I was hoping to catch you before you left the city."

"And you have," I replied. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, being from the Imperial province the council has tasked me with investigating the Dark Brotherhood's involvement in Telvanni affairs. And much to my surprise they resolved to ask your guild for help as well."

"Is that so?" I asked, surprised myself. "And you said 'Telvanni affairs'?"

"A slip of the tongue. There is an...assumption...that Baladas hired them, which is unspoken and which I don't really believe anyone wants to see proven. Baladas will be a much better council member than the man hater was."

Clearly Aryon's man would not be putting much effort into finding the truth, and obviously I wouldn't either, but we would both use our contacts on the mainland to produce as many plausible but incorrect explanations as possible. No one will ever prove that Baladas hired the Dark Brotherhood, since he didn't, and Aryon had seen to it that the two main arms of investigation were safe from accidentally stumbling onto the truth, since we both knew it.

"This is a gift from Aryon," Turedus said, handing me a tightly wrapped bundle, "for your help in this matter as well as your support of his museum. It is good to see peaceful relationships blossom between our house and your guild."

I waited until I got home to open the package. It was my own armor, which Turedas had carried aboard the ship in case someone with a stray suspicion had searched my belongings. I hung the black chainmail carefully, back in the secret portion of my closet where it can hopefully remain.

_**Day 46: For hire**_

Yesterday was a long day, and the sleepless night before may have taken a toll. I woke up in a foul humor, and it did not get any better. Ahnassi was no help. I guess I have kept her waiting too long. She is far more anxious to move than I am. Rather than fight about it I set off for Ald-ruhn to check on progress at Bal Isra.

Galsa Gindu, the Redoran architect, greeted me warmly and we set off across the ashlands to my new manor. The ashlands stretching to the horizon normally give me a sense of unfettered freedom. The nomadic existence of the Ashlanders seems ideal. The construction of the manor is a perfect fit, aesthetically, but in the vastness it seems far too fragile. I think Galsa could see my discomfort, perhaps because she has already been working on a solution. She and Athyn Sarethi, head of the council, have been assembling a staff to manage the estate. She also has designed appropriate fortifications, but there is a problem. With all the trouble in Mar Gaan the Redoran Guard is short handed, and fortification without guards to man the walls is a waste.

We discussed options on the return to Ald-ruhn, and by the time we reached the thick city walls I was decided. Galsa would get construction started on the walls, and I would approach the fighter's guild to supplement the guards. I thought that my position as the local head of an Imperial guild would help me in negotiating with them. Unfortunately I forgot that the empire runs almost exclusively on exchanged favors. Percius Mercius, the Cyrodiil steward of the Ald-ruhn guild hall did not forget, and was measuring my potential uses as soon as he laid eyes on me.

"Certainly I would be happy to help a fellow outlander," he said with that ingratiating tone that Cyrodiils are so adept with. "In fact I have a couple very good prospects for you. They are looking to settle. As I'm sure you know the life of a guild member can be a bit transient."

I considered my travels during my journeyman days and could certainly sympathize. "That sounds perfect," I said, setting myself up for the kill.

"I thought so," he said, "but there is a complication." I should have guessed. "I had them in mind for an assignment that may require them to leave Vvardenfell." Natives of Cyrodiil have been at the center of Imperial intrigue for so many generations that even Cyrodiil peasants can lie with no outward sign. Looking back I would guess this was a perfect example.

"A mission to the mainland?" I asked.

"No. Just that it would likely cause such...repercussions...that they would have to leave. I only considered them for the task since they are ready to leave the guild, since it is imperative that the fighter's guild not be associated with this task."

I could feel the jaws of the trap closing, but somehow he had stirred my curiosity. The fighter's guild are mercenaries for hire. Almost any action they might take would be the responsibility of whoever hired them. "What do you have them doing?"

"I haven't assigned them yet. It isn't actually a guild job, and it could offend one of our best local clients. If they do it I will pay them myself and they will be transferring back to Cyrodiil." I could have reminded him of the embargo, which might have unspun the web of half truth he was spinning, but I missed the opportunity. "It is a simple task though, and, come to think of it as a Breton perhaps you could do it."

"I thought I made clear that I want to hire Dunmer," I said.

"Yes, you did. The men I have in mind are Dunmer. That's why they would be hard pressed to do the job without problems. Frelene Acques is a Breton; you are a Breton; it could all work out."

"Who is Frelene Acques?"

"She is a friend, and she is in trouble with house Hlaalu." House Hlaalu; so that was the client that Percius was concerned about offending. "As a fellow Breton you could visit her without raising questions."

"Visit her?"

"They have her imprisoned in Vivec City."

"Visiting her does not seem to be much of a task."

"That's just to get the layout. I need her broken out. Quickly."

How I ended up agreeing to this mad scheme still puzzles me. There is no way that the fighters guild steward in Ald-ruhn was considering sending a band of Dunmer mercenaries to assault the Hlaalu treasury, which is where they hold prisoners. Mercenaries; I should have been able to simply pay them. Cyrodiils!

_**Day 47: Most delicate business**_

Conditions are vastly improved in the headquarters of the guild. Malven has kept her word, and the staff in Vivec is on par with any hall in the land. They have new apprentices, and the diverse skills of the journeymen are up to almost any challenge. It may not have been necessary to enlist the aid of Malven herself today, but it was a comfort. Diplomacy and duplicity; how they go hand in hand!

I thought long and hard about Frelene Acques last night. Getting her free from the clutches of House Hlaalu seems simple enough. As the Archmage I have enough political pull to be allowed to visit my fellow Breton, and could simply toss her an intervention scroll so she could teleport to freedom...which would of course make me instantly notorious. Even if I could slip it to her somehow, it isn't like a visit from the Archmage shortly before an escape would not raise a question. Killing everyone in the Hlaalu treasury, though perhaps possible, would certainly be extreme, but in the dark hour before dawn it seemed as good an idea as any. When the sun rose it was clear that I would need help.

As steward of the Vivec hall Malven doesn't have as much political capital to spend as I have, but being Dunmer herself does help. It was not too hard for her to get a visit scheduled. She also had the advantage of reporting to supervision; any questions she didn't want to answer she could defer until she could speak to me, and she could portray her errand as a minor inconvenience she had been assigned rather than a task of any import or interest. She appeared to be bored, the guard seemed bored, the prisoner was certainly bored; not likely that this exchange would leap to mind when Frelene turns up missing.

"The Archmage is curious about your family, prisoner," Malven said blandly once she had gotten through the clutter of formalities and assorted doors that isolated the cells from the rest of the world.

"Why is that?" was the surly response.

"He is a Breton also. Apparently your surname is shared with a distant branch of his own family."

"Well, big deal. Why isn't he here then?"

I was, actually. After slipping invisibly through the doors on Malven's heels I had taken a shadowed position against a pillar and was listening closely to every word.

"The Archmage is away on business, as is frequently the case. He has given me a list of the better known members of that branch of his family. If you would give me the names of your own relatives I can check to see if there are any in common. If so I will let him know. There doesn't seem to be any rush; you don't appear to be going anywhere."

They had certainly not made friends, and the encounter at the bars passed quickly and fruitlessly. Malven returned to the guild, and the prisoner sat disconsolate on her bunk. It was clear to her, and more importantly to the guard, that no help could be expected from the mage's guild. I let the routine grind on to dull their expectations even further, and waited.

In the afternoon the guard changed. The oncoming guard peered briefly into the two occupied cells, then settled into a chair. The tired guard, with a sigh of relief, pushed the keys across the table and stood to leave. I watched the keys. The distant click of a closing door signaled the completion of the change. The new guard stared at his boots stretched out before him. Again I waited.

I don't think he went to sleep. Ordinators are a little too dedicated for that. But the quiet, stuffy room still took a toll on his alertness. With a whispered command I activated the enchantment in my glove. A trick learned from my adopted father, who called it his 'glove of five fingered discounts', the telekenetic spell allowed me to gently lift the keys, pass them behind the somnolent guard, and drop them into my other hand; all from the safe shadow of the pillar. I quietly opened the furthest cell, slipped inside, and locked the door.

It wasn't too long before the afternoon meal arrived, and the missing keys were suddenly noted. A search of the floor, incredulous pawing at the table; the boredom disappeared like a mist at mid day. The two prisoners even roused themselves to stare through their respective barred doors. In short order a duplicate key was brought in, and they and their meager belongings had been hauled out and meticulously examined. Before anyone could think that the empty cells should be opened as well, the lost keys were found on the floor, lodged against a chair leg.

After some agitated complaints about false alarms things settled somewhat. The prisoners returned to the idle lounging that is their lot, and the guard returned to the endless battle for alertness that is his. He did, however, have the keys firmly attached to a belt on his armor. Likely no one will ever understand the mystery of the wandering keys, but hopefully they will remember that Frelene Acques and her cell were searched sometime between Malven's visit and the escape.

Frelene will use the scroll that mysteriously floated into her cell tonight, once all is quiet in the courtyard of the High Fane, the temple here in Vivec. At that point she is on her own. I did my part.

_**Day 48: The ordinary day**_

My arrival in Vivec this morning was quiet, but obvious. I enjoyed the brisk walk from Pelagiad, pausing briefly to laugh with a passing netch herder. It was good to know that for some there is still a normalcy to their days. As I left her, and the herd of great gas filled beasts who floated gently on the morning breezes, my smile faded. I live constantly in the shadow of the pending war; the war that must be won in order for her normal life, and untold others, to continue. So I crossed the bridge to the Canton with a renewed sense of commitment, but no particular direction.

It was important to be noticed, so I paused on the seemingly endless climb up the ramps of the foreign quarter to swap gossip with an Ordinator. It was not much of a trade. I gave him a vague 'outsider's view' of the turmoil in Telvanni territory, filled with 'as I heard it' and 'from what I saw' disclaimers. In return he gave me a description of the escaped prisoner. I was appropriately shocked.

"Escaped?" I exclaimed. "I had heard her name, and was thinking she could be a distant relation. I wonder if my steward had a chance to check on that for me."

"She did," I was told. My source paused, recognizing that he was slipping beyond common gossip and divulging information about an investigation. My former services to the Ordinators no doubt stood me in good stead. "Just between us Archmage, Malven was the last person to visit the prisoner, and initially there were some questions about that raised."

"Really?"

"Yes. But the guard who was on duty at the time is sure that nothing was passed to the prisoner, and didn't think the conversation went particularly well for the prisoner either."

"Malven had some simple tests. Not likely that we are related, and if not it would have been a short interview."

"That would be it then. Apparently she was only there for a few minutes."

"You said there were questions. Is Malven a suspect?"

"No. Like I said, the guard on duty was very sure."

"But, he would never want to admit that she might have slipped the prisoner a lockpick or something, so I don't know if that really means anything..."

"True enough. But there was a thorough search on the next shift as well. There were questions at first, but Malven has been cleared. No lockpick, by the way, she teleported out of the cell."

"Teleported? I thought that all prison cells were enchanted to drain magicka?"

"They are. Most likely someone slipped a magicka restorative into her food."

"Ah." I paused. "I'll have our records checked. See if any of our alchemists has sold such a potion in the last few days. Maybe they would remember something unusual about the buyer. You might suggest to whoever is in charge of the investigation that they could check with me about that."

"Good idea, Archmage."

I grinned. "I'm sure they're good investigators who would think of that themselves, but it never hurts to have a suggestion." It's hard to guess a facial expression behind the stiff Ordinator mask, but his eyes were smiling. I continued on to my office.

Just a typical day in the office. I gave Craetia a notice that the Ordinators may be inquiring, and she set about auditing the alchemy records. I reviewed the summaries of financial and training records from the guild halls, and sent off brief comments to the stewards. Mostly just encouragement, though profits are slipping again in Ald-ruhn. Edwinna sometimes gets too wrapped up in her research and needs to be prodded, gently.

Word went out quickly through the guild guides that I was in the headquarters, and by noon a stream of reports marked 'personal attention' was flowing onto my desk. I do not spend many full days in the office, but when I have the chance I encourage as much direct correspondence from the membership as possible. It is a very 'informal' system, which works for everyone. I might make a couple of margin notes, and usually write 'thanks' at the bottom of the messages, then they are resealed and returned. Knowing their note will not be filed somewhere seems to make people more comfortable about sharing their opinions. From the multitude of brief notes I can get a sense of the halls that I might not get passing through. As in any organization, hardly anyone is completely satisfied, but I get to hear things before anyone is seriously upset.

In the afternoon I met with Skink. Not surprisingly, the notes from those assigned to Telvanni territory conveyed a lot of concern. What I had not realized though, and passed on to Skink, is that in the lower ranks of the guild the upheaval in the Telvanni council is heightening the usual anxieties. Fore-warned is fore-armed, and he will be letting his people know that there is every reason to believe the changes will improve the guild's relationship with the Telvanni. Obviously he won't be going into great detail, but it will reduce the strain. For his part, Skink brought me up to date on progress in the council. Aryon and Neloth united form a strong voice, and they have started easing the Telvanni into preparation for war. They have suggested that a visit to Therana will be in order soon, but it is not called for yet.

Late in the day the message I was waiting for came from Ald-ruhn:

Initial payment on your mercenary contract has been received. Prospects will be available for interview in the Ald-ruhn hall during normal business hours. Thank you for choosing the fighter's guild.

Yours,

Percius Mercius

Sometimes things work out.

_**Day 49: Wheels within wheels**_

Thieves in the Empire, like thieves anywhere, have always been organized, though calling them a guild is perhaps an overstatement. The Imperial Legions, and other enforcers of the law, will usually scoff at the suggestion, and rightly so. There is not the structure that one finds in a regular guild. The Mage's Guild and the Fighter's Guild are patterned on the traditional crafts guilds, with their system of ranks, while thieves form more of a free flowing brotherhood. In any event, it is very difficult for a thief to operate completely on their own, so some sort of conclave is almost inevitable.

I grew up in just such a conclave. My 'father', who was not really my father, was well respected in the community at large, and even better respected among those who plied their trades in the dark alleys and byways. He owned a small warehouse and appeared to make a small but honest income storing goods for various traders, who came to our city to supply the local merchants with trade goods and take the local products away to stronger markets. What the community at large did not know was that under the warehouse floor a hidden storage area served much the same function, except that the goods stored there were only being shipped away because they were too recognizable to be sold locally...their rightful owners would no doubt object. Some of those goods my father and a small group of friends would acquire themselves, but most came from a larger group of friends who much preferred a little coin in their pockets to a house full of stolen goods.

This circle of friends expanded slowly, for obvious reasons, and in many cases a new friend would be added to the circle without the convenience of a formal introduction. When someone new arrived in town, having fled the authorities in their former home, they couldn't just ask around to find a business like my father's, and if they knew of him from his reputation in criminal circles they still could not just walk in off the street loaded with stolen goods and expect a friendly reception. A unique language of signals has developed over the ages to manage such obstacles. More like a multitude of local dialects than a language I suppose.

I've not seen fit to pursue the local 'dialect', though I'm sure Ahnassi would be happy to share it with me. Today, I was totally surprised to see the familiar signs of my own native dialect. The surprise came, really, from the confidence with which the signs were given, as well as the specific details. Frelene Acques turned out to be a 'relative' after all, and she knew it. The signals she gave were straight from my childhood. I acknowledged her signs without alerting Percius Mercius. Throughout the interviews and negotiations with my new guards I puzzled about what I had gotten myself mixed up in.

Three things were obvious. The attractive Breton was no warrior, or member of the Fighter's Guild. She had ingratiated herself with the guild steward for some reason that was most likely not what the pompous Cyrodiil believed. Somehow I was now a vital part of her plan, whatever that might be. In an effort to figure out more I invited Mercius to dinner, timing the invitation so that he could neither refuse nor go without the girl. She helped by letting out a delighted squeal at the mention of a dinner out. I sent word with one of my newly hired guards to let my household staff know that Bal Isra would be hosting its first guests.

The dinner was excellent, though I was too distracted to really appreciate it. I listened to everything the girl said, sorting it into broad categories.

There were obvious lies about her past, told for the benefit of her patron. She had apparently presented herself as a legitimate trader from the mainland, caught by the embargo and then infamously stripped of her goods by bandits. It was a good story, and played well with Mercius. A warrior, he sees himself cast as the hero in the damsel's tale. Like most good fabrications it is likely embellished from some kernel of truth. Most likely she was running black market goods through the embargo and either abandoned her goods evading capture of has the proceeds hidden somewhere.

Another series of half truths had lead Mercius into a very awkward position. The Camonna Tong presents themselves as a society of Dunmer businessmen; a sort of merchants guild that promotes local business. As such they can, and do, contract services from the fighter's guild. The fighters guild charter prevents them from contracting any illegal services, but in doing the legal tasks the mercenaries free the tong's own thugs for their less savory tasks. Very lucrative for the guild, and as long as the they don't find out too much about their client's activities a fine relationship. Frelene's story led to investigating some of these activities. In the course of investigating Frelene's losses Mercius has learned too much about the Tong, and nothing much about her.

Frelene's arrest by the Hlaalu was the final touch. Mercius was left with no way to avoid the truth of the connections between the 'innocent' Dunmer businessmen, the thugs of the Camonna Tong, and the leadership of House Hlaalu. There was no way he could avoid recognizing the truth, but also no way for him to prove it. The clever Breton thief was treading a very fine line. A search for solid evidence could reveal sordid truths about her that would sidetrack her intentions.

Laced through this background of the deception of Mercius were a number of points made for my benefit. These were harder to assess, as far as truthfulness, but their intent was clear. As Redoran Hortator and Archmage I have significant influence. Frelene is maneuvering to have that influence brought to bear against the tong. She is willing to draw heavily on our connected past to accomplish her aims. Her methods have fallen short of outright blackmail, so far, but I have to wonder how far she will go.

_**Day 50: Secret agents of a secret brotherhood**_

I spent the day today with Ahnassi, moving things from Pelagiad to our new manor at Bal Isra. It was an opportunity to explore a nagging question that had risen in the back of my mind yesterday. Ahnassi is tightly connected to the master thieves of Vvardenfell, most notably Habasi in Balmora. Her perspective on Frelene Acques would be invaluable, but tread frighteningly close to a personal fear.

"I met someone who knew my father's fence signs," I said to start the conversation.

She was non-committal, but her tail gave a sudden twitch. "Oh? Someone from the sands of your home?"

"Yes. She was with the guild steward of the fighters guild."

She hissed. "Fighters guild; they are dogs of the Camonna Tong. Their precious charter is supposed to keep them from illegal activities, but it doesn't keep them from working for thugs. Then they contract to 'enforce the law' against us."

"That seemed to be the point she was making to him. I don't think he knows she is a thief."

We were loading things into crates as we talked, and I think she might have been distracted. "She isn't a thief," she said absently.

"You know her?"

Her tail swished furiously. "Arvil Bren, this one does not ask you about mage guild business."

I stopped packing. "No, you don't, but you do hear quite a bit in your own quiet way. I don't worry about it."

"And you don't bring home security plans from your guild halls," she said.

"True. I was a thief. I grew up with thieves. I wouldn't tempt you like that." I grinned.

"Smart," was all she said, but she smiled back.

"I don't ask about your fellows," I said. "Things get stolen from the guild halls. I still don't ask. But this Breton girl is pulling me into her web. I need to know what she is up to."

Another hiss, angry this time, but not at me. "You? You are not part of her assignment!"

The question burst from the back of my mind and was out of my mouth before I could stop it. "Am I _your_ 'assignment'?"

She dropped the ceramic pot she was putting into the crate, and it cracked in half. "No. Khajiit cannot mate that way. That is why we had to get a Breton." She looked at me with a look that filled me with remorse. "We are not just an 'assignment', are we, my Breton?"

It was a very difficult conversation, but we got through it. I'm not absolutely sure what to think, but truth is never a really absolute thing.

Even though it wasn't an intentional plot, Ahnassi being so close to the Archmage certainly benefits her shadowy friends. As the fighters guild became further embroiled with their enemies in the Camonna Tong it isn't surprising that the idea of attaching an agent to an influential member would occur to them.

"But I knew about you from the start," I said.

"Yes. You are open minded. Mercius is not. And you have your own past." So Frelene Acques had to deceive him, at least in part. She may not be an active thief, but the past she is feeding him is at least partly fabrication. Ahnassi got back to packing, but she was clearly still angry about something, and it wasn't me.

"How is our Breton spy 'pulling you into her web'?" she finally asked.

"If she has her way I'll be leading the Redoran's against House Hlaalu," I said.

"House Hlaalu might as well be 'House Camonna Tong', you know that."

"Yes, but we can't afford a house war right now. House Dagoth is enough of a problem. I also really can't afford some voice from my past announcing that the Archmage and the Hortator was raised a thief. That's the direction she's headed."

Her ears laid flat and her eyes narrowed. "We will take care of that," she said. "She is grasping at straws, but you are not a straw she can use."

I could see the problem. The target of her plan had come around, reaching the conclusion that his guild was operating outside the intent of their charter. Unfortunately, all that a guild steward reaching such a conclusion could accomplish is the destruction of his own career. In distant Cyrodiil the highest ranks of the guild welcome squabbles between what they consider 'minor provincial factions', and they are not known for making judgments based on ethics. They side with wealth.

"Actually sweetheart, I think I can be of some use to her. Just not necessarily the way she expects."

_**Day 51: Turn of the tables**_

Ahnassi and I awoke in our new manor this morning. After a hard day of moving it was a joy, until I looked around at the mountains of crates to be unpacked. I pulled the covers over my head.

"You do not know how to enjoy life Arvil Bren," Ahnassi purred as she deliberately shredded the blankets with her claws. "You have vast wealth and authority, well earned, and the household staff are all wondering why you do not tell them what to do. Their Redoran honor was impugned every time you hauled a crate off of your teleport mark yesterday. If you start opening crates today they will all have to kill themselves in shame."

I peered out through the widening rents in the bedding. "Okay," seemed like all there was to say.

"This one will supervise them, and make sure your things are pleasantly arranged. Do you want all your armors and weapons scattered haphazardly about the hallway as you had them at home?" She continued to slowly slice the blankets into long strips, and I opted not to call her on her sarcasm. There are lessons one learns when their mate has three inch retractable claws.

Her mind is as sharp as her claws, and she was happy to help me work out my plans. It distracted her somewhat from the seemingly random rearrangements of our furniture that were keeping the staff and newly hired guards busy. I started out cringing at the seemingly wasted efforts, but by the end of the day I was awed. As she had suggested, their strenuous efforts made the staff feel useful, and in the end her generous nature and a liberal supply of food, drink and gold had developed a clannish loyalty in them that will serve us well.

The sitting room area was her first priority, and it was ready well before our guest arrived. Frelene Acques looked around with an appraising eye as she was led in by a red jacketed servant. "Do not grow too interested, operative," Ahnassi hissed. "You are not here to case the house." I laughed to myself. Ahnassi had bristled at me saying that the Breton was a thief yesterday, but today she herself was addressing her by a guild rank and guarding our possessions against her. Kajiiti, in general, have a hard time acknowledging that anyone else is even capable of truly being a thief, at least in title.

"I wouldn't think of it," the Breton said smoothly, "and I apologize for any other... infringements... I have made in pursuit of my assignment." She turned a demure look my way, and I feared for her life, or at least her eyesight. Ahnassi's claws were peeking through the fur on her fingertips.

I decided to get right to business before things got out of hand. While she may or may not be a skilled thief, it was obvious why the Breton agent had been chosen for the task of infiltrating the fighter's guild. Her bubbling flirtatious nature would turn any man's head, and most would never notice the flickering calculation in the depths of her eyes. I'm sure Mercius never had a chance.

"Your assignment is why you are here today," I said. "You seem to think that a House war between the Redorans and the Hlaalu would serve your purpose."

"Yes," she said. "The Redorans have superior warriors, well respected. Many guild members who are employed by Hlaalu nobles would refuse to side against the Redorans. Not out of fear, but out of respect. They may turn a blind eye to the wrongs of the Hlaalu, but a direct confrontation with the Redorans would illuminate the right and wrong of things too brightly to ignore."

"Good theory, but I doubt it. The fighter's guild operates on loyalty and order. There might be a few who would take the high road, but every time one did it would add greater opportunity for advancement for any other who took the low road. That's how Mercius lost control of the guild in the first place, isn't it?"

"Yes," she agreed with obvious reluctance. "The Nord, Hard-Hart, appealed to the guild masters on the mainland. He said that Mercius was too selective about assignments and was costing them money. The first thing Hard-Hart did when they stripped Percius of his rank and promoted the Nord to his place was to dispatch Percius to Ald-ruhn, the worst possible posting. Now, since the Ald-ruhn chapter brings in so little income, Percius is effectively silenced."

"So your war wouldn't work," I said.

"Yes it would. Even if you are right, and most of the guild sticks with their Hlaalu masters, the Redorans would win, so the guild would be broken."

I sighed. "So that would be an acceptable result?"

"My job is to break the fighter's guild away from the Camonna Tong. If they are completely broken in the process, that is not my problem."

"But it is mine. Those mercenaries will be needed, as will house Redoran's warriors, and even the Hlaalu."

"So you are not going to cooperate?" she said, and turned an appealing look to Ahnassi. Clearly she expected that the needs of the thieves guild would provide her an ally who could influence me as effectively as she herself influenced Mercius.

"I'll get your job done," I said, "but the cooperation needs to come from you." Ahnassi's slitted eyes indicated to the Breton agent that she really had no choice.

I don't know if Ahnassi doubted the operative's word, or her skills, but she accompanied her back to Ald-ruhn. Most likely, she herself acquired whatever materials were needed, and the Breton did the forging. In any event, she returned with the documents I need. Tomorrow I will report to Dren plantation. Not as Arvil Bren, Archmage, but as Demeter Boyle, fighter's guild protector and warrior for hire.

_**Day 52: Arrival**_

Orvas Dren's plantation in the Ascadian Isles region is the largest and most beautiful land grant in all of Vvardenfell. Being the brother of the Duke certainly has its advantages. I approached along the pleasant riverbank, rehearsing in my mind the role I was about to play. The sun rose over the outer wall ahead of me, casting long shadows of Dren's prize netch out to greet me. The giant beasts floated lazily in the morning mists, contained in an area within the compound that they had been trained to stay in by innumerable hours of constant herding. Hours put in by slave herdsmen, whose own living conditions stood far below the level of care that the netch enjoyed.

I left the bank of the river and followed the wall, enjoying its cool shade. My armor, crafted from the metallic shells of Dwemer centurions, brought to mind a custom fitted oven. The huge sword hung on my back took the place of my usual pack, and I shifted the rucksack loaded with a minimum of provisions from hand to hand. I can act the part of a warrior, and I have the papers to show it, but I certainly can't claim to be comfortable at it.

The huge Nord who met me at the west gate seemed comfortable enough. He also seemed more than willing to hack me to pieces with his great axe. My story held together in one piece though, so he opted to leave me intact also, at least long enough for his superior officers to check me out. He sent a passing slave scurrying with a cuff to the ear. "Fetch Manes Othreleth," he growled, "and be quick about it."

Manes Othreleth turned out to be a Dunmer clad in Dwemer armor similar to my own. He looked me up and down with distainful red eyes. He wore no helm. I had my own pushed up onto my head so my face was visible. His roving gaze came to rest there. "What do you want Breton?"

I held my papers out for the second time. "Hard-Hart seems to think this is the best place for my talents to be useful."

"Hard-Hart? This says you come from the Ald-ruhn chapter." He rattled the documents.

"That's where I've been working since I came to Vvardenfell. Mostly guarding mages on expeditions to Dwemer sites. Didn't pay very well, but the salvage was good." I banged the bracer on my forearm against the heavy breastplate of my armor. "Only so much Dwemer plate can be carried around, though, and only so much time can be spent with a bunch of whiny mages. If I wanted to be surrounded by mages I could have stayed home."

"Yes. Bretons are certainly known more as mages than warriors. We aren't really in need of any more guards right now. I don't know why Hard-Hart would have sent you."

"I didn't ask what the job was. Really I was ready to call it quits on the guild. Be a little more...independent. Didn't seem like I was really welcome in Redoran territory though. Hard-Hart suggested that I would do better in Hlaalu territory, and that an assignment with Orvas Dren would be a good way to get familiar."

"Well, a lot of the mercenaries who've come here have ended up joining house Hlaalu, true enough. That doesn't mean that every man in the guild should be dispatched to Dren Plantation though. The guard house isn't all that big. The boss might have a use for you. Tell you what. You can bunk in the slave quarters until we get this sorted out. Food and a roof." He hollered to some nearby slaves. "Clear out that shack!" He pointed. "Everything! Just haul it all out." He turned back to me. "You'll want to let it air out a bit. We'll get you a clean bedroll from the guardhouse."

Despite Othrelath's claims, the guardhouse seemed huge, and very lavishly appointed. Dren may not put much into providing for his slaves, but he takes good care of his mercenaries. I suppose though that it is easy to play it down, since it sits a short throw away from Dren's own villa, which could serve as the country home of the Duke himself. Othrelath left me in the care of a Breton, also clad in armor of Dwemer metal, though hers was formed to fit a much more shapely figure. He hustled over to the villa, conversing with a Dunmer who had been strolling through the gardens using a great ebony spear as a walking stick.

"Is that the guard commander?" I asked the woman, who had been introduced as Virene Mene.

"The highest commander," she replied. "That's Orvas Dren."

Of course, Orvas Dren had also heard nothing about my 'assignment' to the plantation. I have a very short time before confirmation, actually lack of confirmation, is received from the guild headquarters in Vivec. By morning the career of Demeter Boyle must come to an end. I am past the guards posted at each gate, but the captain roving the compound and the archer on the roof of the guardhouse may present a problem... and there is no telling how many Camonna Tong thugs Dren has in the villa with him.

_**Day 53: Casting out the outlanders**_

I was up well before dawn this morning. The two moons of Tamriel bathed the plantation in a soft glow. I stood in the deeply shadowed doorway of the ragged hut I had been assigned. The nagging pull of Moon and Star was quiet. More than quiet. The ring suffused me with satisfaction. The spirit of Nerevar was home in the Ascadian Isles.

The mighty bull netch, prize of Dren's herd, floated in the moonlight. Its great tentacles hung limp, trailing lightly across the ground. The huge beast was famed throughout Vvardenfell; sire to a line of netch known not only for great size, but also for the suppleness of the leather their hides produced. It drifted in its sleep on the gentle breezes, occasional sighs of its vents pushing it away from the walls of its pen. It is unfortunate that such a magnificent creature ended up in the hands of such a foul specimen as Orvas Dren.

A betty netch, brought in to breed with the great bull, was more restless. In the wild, or a free roaming herd, a breeding female would have a number of bulls flocking around her. Being penned with only one suitor was not to her liking. Her owner had paid a hefty fee for her to have the right mate, and the herders who had brought her in were nearly exhausted by the effort of fending off wild bulls during the trek.

I slipped deeper into the darkness of the hut, where the glow of magica would be out of sight. The Daedric longbow solidified in my hands. I stepped again to the doorway. The bowstring sung its quiet song and the arrow sped on its deadly course. The brain case of the betty netch, located on the bottom of the gas bag, burst silently. The tentacles gave a single jerking spasm. The lifeless gasbag continued to float, drifting with the breeze. Only when it bumped against the high wall did the herders become alarmed.

They cautiously approached the netch. Certainly no healthy netch would allow itself to be blown against an obstacle, but they had no way to grasp that the beast was dead. Only when a bold herder had grabbed a trailing tentacle and pulled the corpse away from the wall to protect the leather hide did the magnitude of the situation set in. Then the great bull woke up, and instantly sensed the presence of death in its pen. It started jetting frantically about.

The overnight shift was not awarded as a prize. The herders were sleepy, but roused to horrified wakefulness. In short order the panic set in. Shouts for their own supervisor and the leader of the visiting herders began to echo off the compound walls. As could be expected the watch captain was drawn to the commotion. I slunk through the shadows to Dren's villa.

Dren's bodyguard sacrificed himself for time. Caught up from sleep by the growing chaos outside he had not donned armor. When the chaos entered the villa, personified in my gleaming armored form, he courageously threw himself in my path. He fell to my shortsword, but not in vain. As his red eyes closed for the last time he could see his leader appear at the top of the stair, encased in full Orcish mail, armed and ready.

"You bear the Moon and Star," he said.

"Yes. It is time to unite the houses." The voice was mine, the words were not, although I was in complete agreement.

"Yes, and it shall fall to me to unite them! Seeing Moon and Star on your pale hand disgusts me outlander, but suddenly my destiny is clear. You bring the ring to me! It is I who shall lead my people! I who shall throw off the yoke of the outlanders!"

"Your touch would defile the ring, and the ring would end your life. It is not this body, born of Breton parents, that is the abomination that must be cast out. There is corruption in the outlander empire, and it oozes into Morrowind. You, Orvas Dren, you are the focal point of that corruption. You have twisted Dunmer society, twisted great House Hlaalu, twisted your own brother, all to promote your own interests above those of your people."

Again, the voice was mine, the words were not. I was still in complete agreement, but I wouldn't have put things quite that way. I was pretty sure there was a way that Dren could have been bought off. The spirit of Nerevar would not have it. It was today, at Dren Plantation, that the legend was realized. I am a Breton, but I am a Redoran. Dren is a Dunmer, but he has abandoned the spirit and principles of Vvardenfell. Today Nerevar stood for the Velothi, in the body of a Breton, and cast out the outlander corruption personified by Orvas Dren.

Of course, Dren did not go quietly. I was momentarily dismayed when he seized up an ebony spear and charged. I know well the benefits of the long reaching weapon he held against me. But the significance of the moment would be served well. The legend of Nerevar was not founded on subtlety, but on theatrics. The eyes and ears of the household staff would record the event, and the story would spread.

Deep in Dunmer history lies a mighty sword, the Foeburner. Long before the Dwemer split from their Dunmer cousins the united Velothi stood against invasion from the savage precursors of the Nords. The leader of House Dwemer, the dwarf king, forged the Foeburner in the fires of Red Mountain. The Nords, who swept fearlessly over all opposition, were turned back. Their greatest warriors fell before the blazing blade, and eventually just the presence of the dwarf king and his sword could turn the barbarian hordes into fleeing rabble.

As I swept the great Dwarven claymore from the scabbard on my back Dren laughed. "A replica of Foeburner outlander? Am I supposed to quake with fear? The Foeburner struck terror in the Nords, but it did not serve the Dwemer against the Dunmer. The Nords may be of hardy stock, but fire is an ally of the Dunmer, we do not burn like the outlanders."

"I know. I also know that the real power of Foeburner was the dessicating spell that was woven into the flaming blade that made each stroke more devastating than the last. This sword is not a replica of Foeburner. The threat to the Velothi is now armored in the flesh and dark skin of the Dunmer, like a parasite. Foeburner protected the people, this sword shall cleanse them. This is the Foeshocker." The huge blade smote his ebony spear with a strike of lightning, and thunder boomed.

Again Dren laughed. "Very dramatic outlander, but hardly impressive. A minor jolt, nothing more. But after I spit your pinkskinned husk on my spear I may even use your sword. Against the steel clad legions it might prove useful."

He jabbed with the spear as he spoke, disdaining the sword. Even the great blade could not begin to match his reach. The jagged lightning again struck against the ebony shaft with a boom of thunder. Another jolt that Dren brushed aside with a mocking sneer.

The words had not been mine for a while, but this time it was the very voice of Nerevar that roared from my throat. "Your last chance to repent Dren! Cast off your wealth, shave your head, live among the people as a beggar and shout that Nerevar has returned!"

Of course, Dren had seen nothing that made him even consider taking such a course. Neither had the onlookers. The Foeshocker struck once more. This time the mesh of magical metallic tendrils that it had been depositing through the ebony of the spear at every strike had reached its mark in Dren's gauntlets, making them perfect conductors. His flesh exploded in a flash of light and steam, bursting the brittle shell of Orcish plate.

_**Day 54: Independent traders**_

I decided this morning that there was one more thing to be done as Demeter Boyle. I slid reluctantly into the heavy Dwemer armor, and pulled the visor down over my face. The walk to Balmora has never seemed so long.

The armor served its purpose well. Hlaalu retainers are well known for their ability to appraise value at a glance, and walking into their council hall clad from head to toe in rare artifacts garnered immediate attention. Nileno Dorvayn, the house steward, approached immediately. "Greetings! Are you interested in doing business with House Hlaalu?" Her friendly smile did not extend to her red eyes, and for some reason I thought of slaughterfish.

"I have business with the house. With the council, not their underlings. Call them to meet."

She took a step back, which was probably good. I was already uncomfortably warm from the walk, and I suspect the anger boiling off of her was noticably raising the temperature in her immediate vicinity.

"I don't know who you think you are, outlander," she snarled. "The council has authorized me to handle the business of the house. They are independent traders, and take care of their own business themselves. They don't meet. Whatever business you thought you had is within my purview. I choose to do no business with you. The only business you have left is to get out of here."

The guards were tensed, hands on weapons. I did nothing to relax them. Moon and Star pulsed on my finger with a blinding glow as I raised my fist to their leader. "This current council may shirk their duties, but it was not always so. My business with the Hlaalu began long before their corrupt tenure, but it is to be concluded now."

Her eyes were wide as she stared into the depths of the ring. "Nerevar," she gasped. She shifted smoothly to an appeasing tone. "The council really does not meet," she said. "Especially now. Orvas Dren, a high ranking member of the house, was killed at his plantation yesterday. The councillors are...concerned...and they..."

"They are in hiding," I interrupted. "Cowering in their kennels like dogs abandoned by their master. Yes, Dren was a high ranking member of the house. The puppeteer who ran your council through fear and corruption. It sickens me that the noble Hlaalu have fallen so low. It is time for your council to rise up on their hind legs and speak as mer." There was no point in glaring, but I turned the golden visage of my Dwemer helm on each of the guards in turn to let them know they would not be well served to interfere, then drew the Foeshocker. "This is the blade that struck down Orvas Dren. This is the blade that will cut free the outlander corruption from the body of the Velothi." Lightning crackled along the golden metal. "No doubt I can go to them faster than they can rise from their stupors and come to me."

"There are... some of the... the council members... some of them are outlanders..." she stammered.

"I know that," I snapped. "I have met one. A disgusting individual, but he has accepted that being a house councillor is a duty. A duty that he will put before his outlander business. One can only hope the Dunmer born will do the same. Duty and honor shall be served! Those who pillage the heritage of the Velothi are the 'outlanders'..." I cleaved a table with a stroke of lightning, and swept half of it away in a hail of splinters. "They shall not stand."

I turned slowly. "You are guardians of the council chambers of a great house. A duty, and you stand there like outlander statues. Better that you had drawn swords and gone to your ancestors now with honor than later on your knees. I am leaving. You will decide your futures. Either commit to your duties or resign your posts. If you ever allow this chamber to be violated like this again I will slay you myself." I deliberately turned my back and stalked from the room. In the modern house Hlaalu a turned back is a common target, but I counted on my point about honor having been made. It apparently was.

A quick series of teleports and a brief flight put me on Elmas Island, just east of Vivec. The Hlaalu guards at the Omani plantation were no better versed in the honor of their duties than they had been at the council hall. I struck the door from its hinges with a clap of thunder. "Velanda Omani! You are the head of the Hlaalu council! Put aside your own business, your duty has come to you."

To her credit Omani did step forward. My conversation with the nominal head of the council was short. She is accustommed to being told what to do by Orvas Dren, but I believe she may grow into the leader her position requires. She set a date for the first meeting of the Hlaalu council in over a decade. I will be notifying the council members for her myself.

_**Day 55: Unable to attend**_

Arranging a meeting of the Hlaalu council is proving more difficult than I expected. Orvas Dren's corruption completely disrupted the function of the council. One member, Dram Bero, who at some point apparently crossed Dren, has dropped completely out of sight. Hopefully Hunter Nine-toes will be able to develop some leads on his whereabouts.

After meeting Nine-toes at his house in Balmora I set out for Suran. Nevena Oles manor is not far out of town. She agreed immediately. Like Velanda Omani she is accustommed to doing what she is told. It is hard to have any confidence in this council. Perhaps if Dram Bero emerges from hiding he could turn out to be a leader.

I ended the day in Vivec City, with another discouraging view of the Hlaalu.

Yngling Half-Troll is a Nord. Crassius Curio, the perverse Imperial, does not provide a great recommendation for awarding council seats to other than Dunmer, but with the realities of the political situation it at least makes sense. A savage Nord, ancient enemy of the Dunmer, makes no sense at all.

Word travels fast. I was met at the door. Yngling manor is on the plaza level of Saint Olms canton and I was glad to be spared the scene, although smashing doors with the Foeshocker is certainly amusing. I was ushered directly into a lavish office. It was hard not to notice that the Nord councilman has no Dunmer on his staff. If I had not noticed the Moon and Star on my finger would have pointed it out. Nerevar was not far removed from the bitter bloody wars with the Nords. The voice of the ring immediately began whispering "Just kill him."

"So, I understand you are arranging a meeting of the House Council," he began.

"Yes. It is time for the council to take responsibility. There are pressing matters that have to be dealt with. War with the forces of Red Mountain is imminent."

"So what? My time is valuable. To attend this meeting my fee is two thousand drakes."

The ring got louder, but I tried to ignore it. "Just who do you think should pay a council member for attending a council meeting?" I asked.

"You, Velanda Omani, tax the people; I don't care. Since I don't really want to attend, I certainly don't care where you get the money...or if you do. I'll profit as well from this war on my own as I would with those spineless creatures. Now, as I said, my time is valuable. If you have anything more to say, set an appointment."

He turned his attention to some documents on his desk. Clearly I had been dismissed. The ring was roaring in my ears. As I rose I reached for the sword on my back. A field of sparkling blue magicka flooded the room, pouring off the hands of a Nord clad in bonemold armor. "No lightning today, Breton," he grated. The Foeshocker slid from the scabbard, but the spellsword's damping field negated the enchantment. He drew his own claymore of Dwemer metal. "Let us see how you are as a swordsman, without your blade's enchantment."

The idea of a 'fair fight' between two hacking brutes armed with huge swords did not really appeal to me, especially since the Nord was as huge as the sword. It also wasn't likely to happen. Half-Troll rose from behind his desk with a dagger gleaming in his hand, and the rest of his staff showed no inclination to stay out of the fight either.

I backed towards a corner of the room. "Councillor, if you are going to hire a spellsword," I began, "you really should see the mage's guild." I waved my hand casually, and the haze of magicka that had taken a solid count of ten to pour out of the Nord disappeared in an instant. "You could have done so much better than this half-witted Nord." Foeshocker erupted in a flash, and I immediately crossed it with the steel longsword of an Orc bearing in from my left. There was a boom of thunder and a sickening stench.

The spellsword and a leather clad Bosmer stopped their advance, looking doubtfully at Half-Troll. "This is ridiculous. Dunmer politics! Great houses! This council is meaningless and I have business to tend. Get someone else!"

"I suppose Dren sold you your council seat," I said.

"Of course! I was negotiating a contract with the temple, and it helped. Well worth the price. The deal is made now, I don't need to be involved in this. Tell this council that I will be unable to attend and they can get someone else."

"That would be satisfactory," I said. I let the tip of the great sword drift slowly down from the ready. "It would be, but for one thing that Dren neglected to tell you. Appointment to a House Council is for life. It is a posting of honor, not convenience." The outraged voice of the ring was in full cry now, and not much I could do to stop it, even if I had been inclined. I drove the desk back with a huge kick of my heavy Dwemer boot, sending the Nord sprawling, then turned on his remaining minions. "Spellsword, in the time it takes you to cast a spell there will be nothing left in this room but me and the stench of burning flesh. Disgusting as you both are I have no quarrel with you. Get out."

"Wait!" wailed the Nord behind the desk, but his cry fell on deaf ears. The guards fled.

"A council seat is an appointment of honor, Nord, and so is their personal guard. You bought your post, and your guards. As you can see, in this, Imperial coin is no substitute for honor."

He hefted to his feet and crouched with the dagger weaving in front of him. "Honor? And you claim to have honor Breton, with your armor and your mighty blade against my dagger?"

I lifted the visor of my helm so he could see my face. "You dare stand on honor with that in your hand? You think I don't recognize the enchantment of a jink-blade?"

"The Archmage?" he stammered.

"Yes. Archmage. Redoran. Hortator. Nerevarine. I am a man of many commitments. I'll pass on your regrets that you will not be keeping yours." The boom of thunder shook the canton as I split him in half.

_**Day 56: A glimmer of hope**_

When I woke up this morning I really didn't know what I was going to do. The leadership of House Redoran is preparing for war with Red Mountain. Redoran honor can be counted on to hold them on course. The individual mage-lords of House Telvanni cannot be described as honorable, but the ambitions of Aryon and Demnevanni can be counted on just as firmly. Either Gothren will lead the Telvanni to war, or they will. But I had seen no sign of leadership in House Hlaalu. I could tell that I was dragging slowly as I dressed and walked into Ald-ruhn. The gathering winds that signaled the coming of yet another ash storm did nothing to lift my spirits, though it did speed my steps somewhat. I should have been more optimistic.

"This one greets you, spymaster," hissed the Argonian as he passed. His voice mixed with the wind, ensuring that no one but me would hear. I continued onward, but did not enter the guild hall. Instead I found an out of the way street and activated my amulet of shadows, then slipped into Gildan's house near the temple. Not surprisingly, the Argonian was waiting for me. Gildan, the local operative of the Blades, bid me welcome and discreetly left the room.

"We bring a message from the hunter," the Argonian said once we were alone. We exchanged a brief flurry of codes, designed to provide authenticity. Agents of the Blades operate very independently, and even though I had taken over the senior position in Vvardenfell from Caius I had certainly never met most of the agents...including this one. Once that was settled he continued. "The hunter would meet you in the plaza of Saint Olms Canton. If he is not there, another will be; one of the people of the root, with red skin, bright green around the eyes." I continued on my way with a lighter step.

As it turns out, Nine-Toes had begun his search for Dram Bero by following me. It amazes me how the Argonian has translated the hunting methods of the marsh into the world of espionage. As he puts it, the best time to find prey is when another predator is striking. While I was inside Yngling manor he was out in the plaza watching; watching to see who else might be watching.

"A well dressed woman, Archmage; Dunmer, look of a noble, but slippery."

"Slippery?"

"Slippery. Like you. Or like this one. She was hard to track. But she went in there."

"You're sure she was watching me?" I asked.

"No. She was watching your prey. She was not upset by his demise, but she gathered the details in your wake very delicately, and then slipped away before the Ordinators arrived."

"So who lives there?"

"No one. The mansion is reputed to be haunted. That was the decisive clue."

At that point there was an interruption. Nine-Toes hissed an apology and slipped away. He returned moments later. "The woman has appeared at the High Fane," he said. "She is being followed."

I considered. The woman obviously was reporting to someone, and Dram Bero would certainly be someone who would have an interest in the demise of the Nord. A haunted mansion in the heart of Vivec City could be a good place for the renegade councilman to hide. I left Nine-Toes at the center of his survaillence web and went to the guild headquarters to wait. I spent the day distractedly reviewing reports.

Late in the day there was a disturbance in the guild hall. Nothing serious, but enough that I came out of my office to see what the noise was about. A red Argonian with bright green scales around his eyes was arguing with Malven. She was clearly exasperated, but continued to calmly explain that the guild guides could not transport him to Black Marsh. When I emerged from my office the Argonian gave a subtle nod, then seemed to accept the limitations of the service and left with a profuse apology. I returned to Saint Olms Canton.

"The woman has a network to rival my own," Nine-Toes reported. "There are agents watching all of the Hlaalu council. She checked in with all of them."

"Where is she now?" I asked.

"Back in there," he said, indicating the haunted manor.

"We don't know that she reports to Dram Bero though. She could be a Telvanni agent. Or Redoran, or some other faction." I turned over possibilities.

"The key information comes from what she is not doing," Nine-Toes said. I must give credit, he had left me behind and it no doubt showed on my face. "She has agents watching Velanda Omani, Crassius Curio, and Nevana Oles. She was watching Yngling Half-Troll. She would have Dram Bero under observation also, or she would have a team searching for him."

I got the point. "But she doesn't. She doesn't watch him because she works for him."

"Yes. He may not be in there. That may be just her headquarters, but she should know where he is."

We worked out a plan. Nine-Toes will contact the woman, who we believe is Dram Bero's agent. Orvas Dren was his enemy. It should be possible to convince him that Demeter Boyle would be a friend.

_**Day 57: Big business**_

House Hlaalu is the house of opportunists. When the Imperial treaty was agreed to by the Tribunal it saved House Redoran, which would have fought to a devastating conclusion, and it doomed House Dres; but the Hlaalu seized the day and became the brokers of Imperial commerce. Today dawns a new day.

Before I arrived at the guild hall in Ald-ruhn on my way to Vivec this morning I was cut off by an Argonian agent. "This one brings word from the hunter. Things move quickly. The hunter is at home in Balmora." I stepped into the hall just long enough to let my stewards know my plans for the day, then went home to gather the armor of Demeter Boyle.

When I slipped invisibly into Hunter Nine-Toes house in Balmora he was pacing. Containing the energies of the lizard folk of Black Marsh within the walls of a house always seems such an effort. He wasted no breath on greetings. "The Hlaalu council meets today. Dram Bero is challenging Velanda Omani for leadership of the council."

My experiences with the Redorans and Telvanni fed a misunderstanding, and I snapped. "Oblivion take these Hlaalu! We can't afford for them to be killing each other now! Dagoth Ur will do a fine job of killing us all as it is!"

Hunter cut me off with a hiss. "There will be no killing Arvil Bren. In House Hlaalu such a challenge is resolved with nothing more than a few blustery threats...and a large exchange of coins."

I should have guessed. "Well, if there is to be a new direction I suppose a new leader is a good thing. And a meeting now is certainly better than a meeting later."

"We assumed you would want to inform them of their new direction yourself, but Dram Bero has been told to expect you."

Timing is everything. I waited; watching Nine-Toes wear out his carpets. His agents brought a stream of reports through the day. I didn't see any reason to delve into his sources. I also saw no reason to involve myself in the inner workings of their council. Leadership of the council passed to Dram Bero without major opposition. I waited. The seat vacated by the demise of Yngling Half-Troll passed on to Nileno Dorvayn. I waited.

Crassius Curio defended himself against a vaguely considered resolution to 'purify' the council by replacing him with another Dunmer. I listened to the report on this discussion with interest. The wily Cyrodiil had no doubt made the connection between the well known Arvil Bren and the mysterious Demeter Boyle, and did not hesitate to use hints of 'secrets' to his advantage. The time for waiting was over.

I walked into the council hall tensed for battle. After my last visit it would have been foolish to do anything less. Foolish, and an insult to the honor of the council guard. I wasn't sure that my attempt to restore that honor was successful, but I certainly didn't want to assume I had failed. Apparently I had not. A burly Dunmer in the distinctive bonemold armor of a Hlaalu guardsman stepped in front of me.

"The council is in session," he said. There was pride in his voice, almost enough to cover the hint of nervous tension.

"As they should be," I said. I turned the golden visage of my Dwemer metal helm on each of the guards, then turned back to what was apparently their self appointed leader. "Well guarded; also as they should be." I undid a clasp on my chest, and gathered the scabbard of the Foeshocker off of my back. "The new head of the council is expecting me, but it wouldn't be appropriate to appear armed with this." I offered the huge claymore, and Moon and Star pulsed obviously on my hand. "It would not be wise to attempt to draw it from the scabbard," I suggested.

The guard stared at the legendary ring, well known to cause instant death to anyone who wore it other than Nerevar. "I understand, sir. Your weapon, for your hand only. It shall be an honor to hold it for you." I was impressed. There was only the slightest hint of relief in his voice.

I sat in a comfortable chair. "If you would let the council know that I await their pleasure," I said. The guards did not relax. My acceptance of normal protocol did not completely erase their memory of my previous visit. The glossy finish of the new table stood as a stark reminder. To their relief the council page returned immediately to usher me into the chambers.

As I entered the chamber Nileno Dorvayn rose to her feet respectfully, and after a moment's hesitation the rest of the council followed suit. Dram Bero was the last to rise, and looked irritated.

"Congratulations on your promotion," I said to the newest council member. "Your fellows think you are overly respectful towards guests." I raised my fist and Moon and Star pulsed brilliantly. Dram Bero's mouth dropped open momentarily; the voice of the ring was smugly satisfied.

"Not just any guest," he said. "Nerevar." Amazement etched his face as well as his voice.

"One of many names, eh Crassius?" I said. The Imperial was speechless. His 'secret', that Arvil Bren lurked beneath the Dwemer mask, had clearly been trumped. "There is business to conclude honored council of the Hlaalu. Shall we sit down?" I removed my helm. Dram Bero was perhaps even more shocked when he saw my face. Initially I pushed down the voice of the ring with my own smug satisfaction, but then I began to wonder if it was really my own. The line between what I consider myself and what I think of as 'the voice' is getting less distinct.

The newly formed council of House Hlaalu has accepted the Redoran's choice and confirmed me as Hortator. They will be preparing for war with Red Mountain. I am counting on them to be as successful making decisions that forward the interests of all Dunmer as they have been at forwarding the interests of their house.

_**Day 58: Redirection**_

Assuming the title of Hortator among the Hlaalu is much different than it was with the Redorans. I rose through the ranks of the Redorans, and the council knew me and I knew them. Athyn Sarethi and I worked together to change the direction of the house, with him taking leadership of the council at the same time I became the Hortator. This is a much greater challenge. I spent a very long day with the new council of the Hlaalu.

Initially, they seemed to think that their highest priority was the division of spoils from the estates of Orvas Dren and Yngling Half-Troll. I listened, which made them uncomfortable, but in short order their conversation became so heated that they apparently forgot I was there. I let them shout themselves out, and formed solutions of my own that none of them liked.

The foundation of Orvas Dren's wealth was the drug and slave trade. It was a lucrative business before, but under the Imperial embargo the profits exploded. I tried not to think about Ahnassi, and my numerous Khajiit friends.

At Dren's plantation the naturally narcotic moon sugar is refined into the irresistably addictive skooma. For centuries Dren has used the skooma to develop 'trading partners' among the Khajiit in Elsweyr. These hopelessly addicted Khajiit are turned against their own people, capturing victims from rival tribes and selling them into slavery. By keeping Elsweyr in a constant turmoil of rival warlords Dren maintained a steady supply of captives. Rather than stopping his business, which was already illegal, the Imperial embargo justified enormously inflated prices at both ends.

Of course, the council saw two major issues that needed to be immediately addressed. First, how were they going to divide the profits from this trade among themselves, hiding it in their own various ventures. Second, how were they going to take over management of the Camonna Tong, the muscle that kept the smuggling operation working. They were not happy with my solutions.

"Moon sugar can be refined into restoratives that boost the strength and speed of a warrior that are not addictive," I suggested from my corner. They all stopped talking and looked at me like I had invited a kagouti into the room...and it was probably smarter than me.

"Well, yes, we all know that Hortator," said Dram Bero eventually.

"Those restoratives would be far more beneficial to the war effort than any number of skooma addicted warlords in Elsweyr," I said, "warlords that are armed by Hlaalu smiths." They all looked uncomfortable. Though Orvas Dren had kept an iron grip on the skooma and slave trade they had all profited from the weapons trade that followed along like a poor cousin. Not only was I snatching away the spoils they were dividing, I was cutting into their existing business.

"I have only supplied weapons to the legitimate governments of Elsweyr," Velanda Omani sniffed piously.

"Weapons they need to hold off the warlords the rest of you are supplying, no doubt. Weapons they pay for with gold drakes. Where do you think they get gold drakes?" No one wanted to answer. They all knew the gold drakes came from the sale of prisoners taken in clashes with the warlords. Velanda Omani stared at the table. "The weapons that you want to ship to Elsweyr could be well used holding back the blighted beasts that are swarming off Red Mountain into the Ashlands."

"But there's no profit in supplying the Ashlanders, or the Redorans!" Nileno Dorvayn exclaimed.

"Yes, there is," said Crassius Curio, of all people. "The profit is that those blighted creatures don't wind up in the streets of Balmora. Vivec City is a long way from Red Mountain so I feel safe enough, but I think you of all of us should consider that." I was so surprised that I nearly fell over.

"The legion soldiers at Moonmoth Fort would never allow things to get that far," said Dram Bero.

"The legions in Morrowind already cost the empire far more than the returns, and with the blight cutting off goods from Vvardenfell it's gone totally backwards," the Cyrodiil continued smoothly. "Don't fool yourself into thinking the legion is an endless resource here to protect your interests. They could be withdrawn in a week. The Empire could write off Vvardenfell without a blink."

Of the five members of the council I would never have expected Curio to be my strongest ally in fighting for the Dunmer, but clearly he was. The sobering thought of the legions being withdrawn hung heavily over the room. "It is all the Redoran smiths can do to keep up maintenance on the weapons that are being used every day in the Redoran guard," I said. "Meanwhile your smiths produce armor and weapons that your drug wars have inflated past the local market's ability to pay, so they get smuggled out to Elsweyr. If the legion is withdrawn the Redoran guard is your defense, and your own business practices are stretching them thinner by the day. Orvas Dren was cutting a personal deal with Dagoth Ur. No doubt when you were all reduced to ash slaves he would still have been in charge. Do any of you want to make a deal with Dagoth Ur?" It was not an invitation, and they knew it.

A pall fell over them. They were facing the grim reality of economics. The currency that facilitates trade is not itself the trade. They could trade arms and sugar for the luxury of slaves, or they could trade it for the neccesity of defense. The fact that more gold flowed back and forth in the luxury trade didn't actually make that trade more valuable.

"So how are we going to get the sugar processed into restoratives?" asked Nevena Oles. "The slaves make the skooma, but they're no alchemists. If we stop trading with Elsweyr we'll be buried in worthless moon sugar."

"Not worthless," I said. "It just needs to be priced so that an alchemist can produce restoratives at a price that the guards can afford. The Mage's Guild can provide all the alchemists required."

"At a fat profit for the Mage's Guild, no doubt," said Dram Bero.

"At a minimal profit, if any. The guild is already sharing the front lines with the Redorans at Maar Gan. We're thinking in terms of survival, not profit. We have been for some time."

"That's true," said my unlikely ally Curio. "They are calling for our Breton friend's head back at the Arcane University in Cyrodiil. Since he killed Trebonius the guild here has done nothing for the mainland. Doing too much 'local charity work', as they put it."

Eventually the new direction took hold. Restoratives and armaments will be flowing into Maar Gan. With Hlaalu archers to back up the Redoran warriors the tide may begin to turn.

_**Day 59: The slowest house**_

With the backing of the Hlaalu confirmed I woke up this morning and again turned my eye to the east. Getting the Telvanni to agree on a direction and move in concert is like herding netch in a cyclone. I walked to Gnissis to see Baladas. In some ways I felt like I was starting from scratch, but at least I didn't have to fight a daedroth to get in to see him.

"I have been very busy Arvil Bren," he said. "I am really surprised at how much this council business has cut into my time. I hardly get any research done."

"There won't be any research done at all if Dagoth Ur's ash vampires take over your tower." Moon and Star tugged in its pouch, and I was sure that if I slipped it on my finger the glow would be blinding...and angry. "Baladas, the Hlaalu have confirmed me as Hortator. I need to get out in the Ashlands and get the support of the tribes. I don't really have much more time for games with your house."

"I understand," he said, "and so does Aryon, and Neloth. Working with Gothren is hopeless though. I know you want his power aligned against Dagoth Ur, but I don't think there is any solution to his obstruction but the Telvanni solution."

"Meaning kill him," I said to clarify.

"Yes."

"What about Therana?"

"That's another problem," he said.

"You said that she would listen to Neloth."

"She will, and she does...mostly. But she also listens to Gothren. She also listens to spiders."

"Spiders?"

"Yes. Spiders that only she can see. Spiders that she remembers would be more accurate I suppose."

The conversation was drifting. The ring was getting even more impatient, and I must admit that it was drawing me along. "Will I get her support or not?"

"You will if you ask for it."

"So if the rest of the council is united how can Gothren disagree?"

"He says that Therana is not competent to decide such an issue. True enough, really. Therana no longer really recognizes what the Hortator is. Her vote makes no difference, but she has powerful retainers that will be very useful against Dagoth Ur, otherwise I would have supported Trerayne Dalen's claim to Tel Branora."

"Trerayne Dalen? Who is that?" I asked.

"She is an Oathman of the house," he said. "She has gotten embroiled in a feud with Therana; a feud which Therana is completely ignoring, or perhaps is not even aware of. Dalen would certainly support you if she were elevated to Therana's seat on the council, and Aryon and I gave it some consideration. She just does not have enough to offer."

"Enough to offer? Now you sound like the Hlaalu, selling council seats at auction."

"I'm not talking about gold, Arvil Bren, I'm talking about power. She and her retainers do not have the power to take Tel Branora without help. If they can't do that for themselves what use would they be against Dagoth Ur."

"Better something than nothing," I mused.

"True, and Therana herself is of no use at all; but her retainers are loyal not just to her, they are loyal to the house, and they are very strong. If Therana would allow it they would crush Dalen and her rag tag band. They will be very good to have on our side, but with the uproar in Tel Branora we aren't getting anywhere."

So I am once again at sea, rounding Vvardenfell on the Grytewake. This time I have no need for the guise of a trader. As claimant to the title of Hortator it is my responsibility to make peace between the conflicting factions in Tel Branora...one way or another.

_**Day 60: Tower of madness**_

The Grytewake arrived at the docks of Tel Branora on the morning tide. I approached the tower peacefully and suggested to the first guard I encountered that he should summon his captain. Apparently my supporters on the Telvanni council are having some effect, as the guard remained courteous even though he recognized me. In fairly short order an Altmer clad in heavy Dwemer plate floated down to the long leafy platform where I stood.

"I am Mollimo of Cloudrest, Guard Commander of Tel Branora and Lawman of House Telvanni," he said as his boots thumped down. "You are Arvil Bren, Archmage of the Imperial Mage's Guild and claimant to the title of Telvanni Hortator. Is there anything else I should know?"

"That depends," I replied, "on your position regarding my guild and my claim."

"The majority of the council supports your claim, so I do as well. However, I am pledged to defend Mistress Therana, so you will have to get her support peacefully. She is...not well, and I will not stand idly should you try to maneuver her into a duel."

"I would rather gain her support than cause her death. And the guild?"

"Your guild is no concern of mine. We welcome independent practitioners here in Tel Branora. Their...commercialism...keeps the peasantry from pestering those of us who pursue magica for its own sake. Master Nelos has suggested that your guild may be useful in the management of these independents."

"I see. It seems that Master Nelos has made my mission here easier than I had anticipated."

"Well, you haven't yet met the Mistress," he said. That was ominous, and no understatement.

Mollimo led me to Therana's chamber, and waited discreetly with the rest of her retainers. They stood in the corridor where they could listen. Once Therana agreed to support me as Hortator I beat a hasty retreat and met with all of them. As we descended to their confrence room the conversation was almost as surreal as talking to their leader had been.

"What was all that about a steel box?"

"She thought he wanted to be a humidor."

"Now THAT would be a unique ambition!"

"At least she didn't think he was a spider."

"Maybe she did. An ambitious spider that wanted to be a humidor."

As we settled around a large table I managed to overcome the impatience of Moon and Star and accepted the situation, but did steer the conversation to more serious matters. "How is Tel Branora actually managed?" I asked. "Clearly Therana isn't really in charge." As it turns out, the mouth in Sadrith Mora, Felisa Ulessen, is more or less independent. As long as she doesn't demand too much of them the rest of Therana's retainers support her decisions. On major issues they reach some sort of concensus with her. Since all the other mouths have to get direction from their masters anyway she has ample opportunity to consult with them.

This 'management by concensus' struck me as very unlike the usual Telvanni way. I eventually understood it though. None of Therana's potential successors is highly motivated to take her place, and all of them are highly motivated that none of the others take her place. So they get along as best they can, which seems to have a positive effect. They take better care of the citizens of Tel Branora than the Telvanni norm.

Unfortunately their concensus on the threat from Red Mountain was already established. They don't really care. Tel Branora is, admittedly, about as far from Red Mountain as you can get without leaving Vvardenfell. I should say without leaving Vvardenfell district. It is a long way to the actual island of Vvardenfell from here. They understood that Dagoth Ur would not be satisfied with ignoring their stronghold if he was allowed to overrun everybody else, but it took all of my patience and most of Nerevar's guile to get them to accept an obligation to help stop him rather than just assuming it would get done.

Even with their eventual agreement there is an obstacle. They won't reduce defenses here without neutralizing the threat from Trerayne Dalen and her band of mercenaries. Mollimo is confident that he and his guards could just kill them, but I'd rather avoid the wasted casualties. I'll find her in the morning.

_**Day 61: Peacemaker**_

On my left forearm I wear a tube of Dwemer metal. It was rolled from the shell of a spider centurion and fitted with leather cuffs that hold it in place. It absorbs some of the shock when I block blows with my shield and protects my arm when I am not using a shield. It also provides extra protection through enchantment.

Through my command of alteration magic I can shield myself with elemental energies, but when entering battle it is always a question as to what will be most effective. Obviously Nords have resistance to frost and Dunmer have resistance to flame, but their preference in destruction magic is still unpredictable. I solved the dilemma by enchanting my bracer with fire, frost, and electrical shielding spells. None of them are very strong, but taken altogether they are effective, and I have some benefit of the correct choice no matter what it is. When a battle lasts long enough for the spell to run out I can make an informed choice and raise a stronger shield of the appropriate type.

Since Trerayne Dalen is a skilled enchanter by trade my bracer served another purpose today.

Under cover of the amulet of shadows I was able to approach her camp undetected and assess her forces. Mercenaries, predominantly Bosmer, most likely more skilled in marksmanship than magery; I was not overly impressed. They were also grumbling about payment. Money had run out, and the promised payment from the treasury of Tel Branora was not looming in the near future.

Against a barrage of arrows the most important aspect of a shield is its size. I opted to use the mercenaries' employer. I released a silencing spell into her back with my right hand as my left arm snaked across the enchantress' throat. The Bosmeri grabbed up bows and crossbows, but had no shot at me without skewering their employer. "You should be able to sense the enchantment in the metal," I said into her ear. "One word of command to release it in direct contact with your throat and you will be very uncomfortable...for a very short time. When the silence wears off the only thing I want you to say is 'lower your weapons'." Without any practical alternative she complied, as did they.

"Now, I have a proposition for you. I am about to be named Hortator of House Telvanni, at which point you will be technically subject to my command anyway, but I much prefer willing retainers. There are positions within House Telvanni that would suit you better than being mistress of Tel Branora...a position you would vacate by your abrupt death before you even got your seat warm, by the way. Therana has a number of possible successors, none of whom are overly scared of you. I would like to see you installed in a position that would allow you to gain experience and skill...and provide enough income to pay your debts. All you have to do is drop your feud with Therana."

The faces of her mercenary crew left no doubt about their opinion. The prospect of certain payment tends to weigh heavily on such professionals. "Why should I trust you?" she squeaked out through her constricted throat.

I slid Foeshocker free of its scabbard and brought it around in front of her. It fairly sizzled with enchantment, and Moon and Star blazed on my finger. "I sincerely have a use for you. If I didn't, when I snuck up behind you I would have annihilated you rather than stopping to chat."

I escorted the reformed rebel to the tower, where she paid due respects to Therana's retainers, who presumably would relay them to their secluded mistress. Then I took her, her troops, and Mollimo aboard the Grytewake. I provided Trerayne with enough septims from my trading fund to pay the back wages the Bosmeri were due, and she released them from further service. While they were happy to receive payment they were not happy to find themselves unemployed. Fortunately that was a circumstance that was easily resolved.

With the feud ended and the ranks of Tel Branora's guard swollen with Bosmer marksmen Mollimo will be patrolling the islands off Azura's coast and erasing any incursions by the Sixth House. Those among the Bosmer who had taken a particular liking to Trerayne accompanied her on Grytewake, bound for Sadrith Mora. I'm not yet sure what her next posting will be, but I will see that it will provide for their wages. A few I dispatched to Percius Mercius. They will join the fighters guild and be assigned to Bal Isra.

A good day's work and no blood shed. I will sleep well.

_**Day 62: Bloody work**_

Yesterday I gained so much, with no loss. I suppose I should have expected fate to deal me the exact opposite hand today.

My only previous experience with the Erabenimsun clan was a brief encounter with one of their scouts, who recommended that I steer clear of their camp. At the time I was glad to follow her advice. I set out this morning, island hopping to the mainland then letting the boots of blinding speed carry me northward into the wastes. I pondered that advise. Unfortunately there was no way to continue to follow it.

I slowed my pace when I was near their camp, then stopped on a nearby hilltop. By slowing I became an object of interest for cliff racers, who don't bother pursuing me when I pass at full speed. When I stopped on the hillside the stream of them that had gathered in my wake caught up in a rush. The midday sun was blotted out by the mass of leathery wings.

It does not take great intelligence to soar about on huge wings, diving on anything that moves and striking with a sharp beak. Cliff racers demonstrate that creatures often fail to develop any more intelligence than they actually need. After the first half dozen one would think the rest would recognize that diving onto an upraised spear would not carry the day, but they didn't. By the time I was done the hilltop was carpeted with dead racers, and I was surrounded by Erabenimsun clan members.

"I offer the gift of valuable racer plumes in great quantity," I said, "and as a clanfriend of the Urshilaku I request your hospitality." The wing feathers of the cliff racer are prized by alchemists, who refine them into levitation potions, and the skin stretched across the wingbones is tanned to make leather that is used for clothing, though not as hardy as the netch leather generally used for armor. The clan set about gathering these goods. As I expected, I was able to identify the clan's leaders as they organized the effort. What I didn't expect was the obvious schism among those leaders.

After a brief but heated debate four men, well armed, stormed down the hill to the camp. The rest of the clan leadership watched them go, then a woman left the rest and approached me. "I am Manirai, wise-woman of the Erabenimsun. I offer you the hospitality of my hearth, but it would be better for you to move on."

"If your invitation is insinscere why make it, honored one?" I asked.

"If I were not sinscere I would not offer clanfriend, but our Ashkahn does not feel the same way and he is a dangerous man."

"Let me guess, he's the one with the big axe that stomped back to the camp."

"Yes. He told me to tell you to leave, but I will not offend our ancestors by refusing you hospitality."

"So you appease both the ancestors and the Ashkahn, offering hospitality while suggesting that I don't accept it."

"Yes. I do not wish to offend the ancestors, but I also cannot defy Ulath-Pal. As I said, he is a dangerous man."

"Is your concern for my safety, or your own?"

"Yours. I can appease him. Though he rules the clan through fear he will not strike me. You he will kill."

"Hmmm. Well, he wouldn't be the first to try. How did someone who ignores your wisdom become the Ashkahn?"

"By rights Han-Ammu should have succeeded his father, but he is no warrior. Ulath-Pal appealed to the pride of the gulakhans with his promises to lead them to glory and victory...and he has. He has also led us to these barrens, since it is the only place our camp can escape the wrath of the house Dunmer he has offended with his raiding."

"What happened to Han-Ammu?"

"He is a gulakhan, in name only. Ahaz, Ranabi, and Ashu-Ahhe are the only council Ulath-Pal acknowledges."

"And the clan?"

"They fear Ulath-Pal, but they fear what would become of us without him. Han-Ammu has not the strength, heart, or cunning of an Ashkahn."

Not a good situation, but I activated the amulet of shadows and followed Manirai to her tent. She went back out, and returned with Han-Ammu. He does lack the attributes of an Ashkahn, and even worse he lacks the desire to be the Ashkahn.

As the clan gathered for the evening meal I concluded that I would have to find a way to work with the leaders they have. If I killed Ulath-Pal and his gulakhans I would be called Nerevarine of the Erabenimsun, but the title would have no value as the tribe would have lost all leadership and power. Confronting Ulath-Pal changed my mind.

He saw me immediately as I stepped out of Manirai's tent, and promptly exploded. "What are you doing in my camp outlander?" he bellowed, drawing his axe.

"Manirai said you would refuse my gift and deny me hospitality. I had to see this discourtesy for myself. Now I have, but I have not yet taken offense." I raised my hand, revealing Moon-and-Star. "I expect you will choose a different response for me."

He took a step back, but his face did not change. He was still hostile, just more cautious. A strange Breton he would have cleaved with his axe. Nerevar reborn he would take in a rush, with his gulakhans in close support. Moon-and-Star flared and I wondered if it would burn my hand. For my part I still didn't want to kill them, not seeing a suitable successor, but the ring was howling for blood. Then, as problems often do, the problem solved itself.

With a muttered word Ulath-Pul activated the enchantment in his axe and magica coursed into his arm. Muscles bulged, straining the straps of his bonemold armor. I immediately saw that Han-Ammu's lack of strength could be solved by the enchanted axe. It followed that his other failings could be solved by enchantment as well. I have the skills, and a good supply of soul gems. These reasonable thoughts disappeared in the blood rage of Nerevar that roared through my mind.

When I regained my wits the clan stood in a silent ring around me. Blood dripped along the length of Foeshocker, or ran off the tip where it rested on the sand. The hacked corpses of their leaders lay strewn around me.

It was critical that I get things moving in the right direction, and I called out, "Han-Ammu, step forward!" He could have ruined everything if he had fled, but despite his failings he is a man of the ashlander tribes. He stepped into the circle.

"Nereverine," he said, quietly.

I was casting a detection spell to assess the exact qualities of the waraxe. It lay with its keen edge of volcanic glass glittering, still clutched in the amputated hand of Ulath-Pul. As I bent to pick it up I recognized that the other enchanted items I would need were also ready at hand. Apparently, Airan-Ammu, the previous Ashkahn, had recognized his sons failings and gathered items that he would need to lead the clan. How these items ended up in the posession of Ulath-Pul and his cohorts is a mystery that I have no time to solve.

"Han-Ammu, the strength of an Ashkahn lies in this axe." I handed it to him. "The heart of an Ashkahn hangs here, in this amulet." I lifted the red stone from the chest of a fallen gulakhan and slipped the chain over Han-Ammu's lowered head. "Ages old wisdom is bound in this robe." As I rolled the corpse out of the heavily embroidered robe I was shocked to see the ghost of Erur-Dan hovering next to me. It had spoken to me in the cavern of the Incarnates; a failed Nerevarine.

The eyes of all the Erabenimsun grew very wide. As I draped the robe over Han-Ammu's shoulders the ghostly voice of the legendary Erur-Dan sounded eerily over the camp. "My wisdom shall guide you, Ashkahn Han-Ammu of the Erabenimsun." Then the ghost disappeared. After that there was not much for anyone else to say. In Manirai's tent she handed me the belt known as Siezing, token of the Erabenimsun clan that identifies me as their Nerevarine.

I am sleeping in the yurt of the Ashkahn. Tomorrow Han-Ammu will be moving in, and selecting new gulakhans. I am sure he will choose wisely.

_**Day 63: Organic towers and stone walls**_

I rose with the dawn this morning and enjoyed breakfast with the Erabenimsun. Then I used an intervention spell to be on my way. I appeared at the Imperial shrine in Wolverine Hall at Sadrith Mora. I walked to the harbor, keeping a wary eye on the local guards. As planned, the Grytewake had used the morning light to navigate the channels. The crew was tying her up when I arrived. Trerayne Dalen stepped down to the dock to meet me.

"Well, that inspired confidence," she said.

"What?"

"I asked that Khajiiti captain why he would serve you so slavishly when he had such a fine ship at his command, and he told me you gave him the ship, brought him his mate, eliminated his rivals, and tripled his wealth...and still pay him top rates for transport."

"Hmmm...maybe I should ask for a discount."

"Probably. Will your plans for me treat me half as well?"

"I don't know. I haven't quite figured out what to do with you," I replied honestly. "That's not unusual though. I didn't know what to do with Grytewake when I captured her, and that turned out all right." I smiled. "Come along, I have people to see." I felt a bit safer walking the streets with her and her quick-eyed Bosmer marksmen for escort.

We arrived at the council chambers. I sent Trerayne in first. "You need to make sure they know you have been reinstated with your house. The paperwork might get mislaid if the council flunkies associate you with me."

"You are not a Telvanni?" she said with surprise on her face. "The way they treated you in Tel Branora I assumed you were a spellwright at the very least."

"Actually, they treated me like the Hortator, and by the end of the day I will be...if you don't slow me down too much gawking in the street." She scurried through the round door.

When she came out I went in. There was no reason to be as confrontational as I had been on my previous visit. Even though I was still not on the agenda Delayn Arvel allowed me directly into the council chambers. The mouths of the council members greeted me courteously. I breifly hoped things would proceed smoothly. Mallam Ryon, speaking for Gothren, fueled that hope, then dashed it.

"The Archmagister has received recommendations from all the council members supporting your claim as Hortator of the house," he said. I turned to each of the other mouths and expressed my thanks. Then he continued. "The Archmagister will be reviewing these recommendations. He moves that this council schedule a date for discussion on the matter; a date that will allow him sufficient time for such review to be completed. It is important to clearly establish this date, so that Arvil bren does not need to wait here for the council to rule. Archmagister Gothren reminds us that Arvil Bren has much to do, and it is important that this council respects his time." I could feel Moon and Star flaring in its pouch, and my own patience was spent also. Enar Releth, newly appointed mouth of Beladas Demnevanni, started to speak. Mallam Ryon cut him off. "I remind the mouth of Beladas that our purpose is representation. It would be appropriate for all of us to now consult with our council members and return prepared to discuss this matter. We stand adjourned."

I did my best to calm the ring. "Before you go to your masters, there's one thing to add to your reports. I will be here first thing tomorrow with my schedule, which they will need in order to schedule a date for this further discussion."

"Very well," said the Archmagister's mouth. "we will schedule this report from Arvil Bren for tomorrow, before we bear reports on this matter. Arvil Bren, we appreciate your co-operation." He waited pointedly for me to leave. As I passed out of the chamber I heard him saying, "Next order of business..." The door closed behind me and I left the council building.

I went next to the tower of Master Neloth, Tel Naga. I was ushered into his chambers without delay.

"So, you have Therana's support," he said. "that's everyone but Gothren."

"His vote won't matter. The one that is in question is yours."

"I've given you my support." He looked puzzled. For a second I thought that I was getting ahead of a Telvanni in the intrigue department. Then he laughed. "Of course you are referring to my vote for Archmagister. No problem, I will support Aryon. I assumed that you would have known that already."

_**Day 64: Underestimated**_

After a busy night I appeared as agreed, first thing this morning at the council hall. "You have brought your schedule?" asked Mallam Ryon.

"Yes. At noon I plan to be here for the installation of the new Archmagister." I almost laughed as the mouth of the mouth fell open. "You have not yet heard that Gothren is dead?"

He began to stammer. "We...we...we will have to...to adjourn, yes, to adjourn, to...to check with..."

Arara Uvulas, mouth of Master Neloth, interrupted. "Actually Mallam, with Gothren dead you no longer chair this meeting. I received instructions from Master Neloth for the eventuality of Gothren's death, and I am prepared to proceed. Anyone else?" A chorus of 'aye's came from the mouths of the remaining council members.

"Well, I am not ready to proceed!" shouted Mallam.

"That doesn't matter," said Aryon's mouth. "You no longer have anyone to represent. I suggest you return immediately to Tel Aruhn and consult with the rest of Gothren's retainers. This afternoon the council will be selecting among those who propose to be Gothren's successor."

"That can't be decided in a day!" Mallam was outraged, and confused.

"Yes," I said, "it can be, and it will be. If the council chooses to continue to be represented by mouths, then the mouths will serve as relays for orders. If the council chooses to direct the affairs of the house they will come here and direct it responsibly. The time for endless dithering has come and gone. The day of the Hortator is at hand.

When Mallam arrived at Tel Aruhn I'm sure he was brought up to date on events very quickly. I left Endase Avel in charge there after I killed Gothren. He was not pleased that I had slain his master, but as is often the case with the Telvanni he was pragmatic. Endase is a powerful mage who was more than able to take command of Tel Aruhn.

By noon the council was in the council chamber. Not their mouths, the actual council, with the exception of Therana. Her mouth, Felisa Ulessen, reported that Therana's retainers were at the disposal of the council and Hortator. She also carried Therana's votes on the two issues that required unanimous agreement of the council. Aryon was confirmed as Archmagister, and I was confirmed as Hortator. Aryon presented me with the Robe of the Hortator, a Telvanni artifact.

Baladas was directed to get control of Tel Mora, which became his responsibility when he took over Dratha's council seat, a responsibility he has completely ignored. I submitted Trerayna Dalen as a potential governess for the man haters of Tel Mora and he happily accepted. He has no intention of moving out of his tower in Gnissis. She will work for him until his new subjects can be brought around to being represented by a 'manling', and probably beyond.

A treaty with the Mage's Guild of Vvardenfell was negotiated. As Aryon had already arranged, the guild has been empowered to handle 'commercial magery' in Telvanni territory. Telvanni retainers operating outside Telvanni territory will be instructed that if they participate in commercial magery they shall be required to maintain membership in the guild. In return, the Archmagister of the Telvanni will be given the rank of a hall steward, which will give him significant influence in the council of the Archmage.

All resources of House Telvanni, including personal action by the magelords themselves, was committed to resisting Dagoth Ur and eradicating the Sixth House cult. This included Endase Avel, who arrived to be confirmed as master of Tel Aruhn and confirmed as a member of the council.

In one afternoon session the Telvanni council completed more legislation than they had in all the centuries of Gothren's reign. I boarded the Grytewake in time to negotiate the outward channel before dark.

_This is the end of Politics of the Redoran. Arvil Bren's adventures will be completed in the fourth and final (I promise) volume; _Vvardenfell United.


End file.
